


Oversight

by ragdollphysics



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Abuse, Coping Mechanisms, Crying, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, Prison, Suffering, Torture, Trauma, mentions of child abuse, slivers of canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-07-21 09:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 79,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19999330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragdollphysics/pseuds/ragdollphysics
Summary: Wesker survives the volcano in body, not so much in mind. He ends up prisoner under a warden seeking a revenge he cannot have, but revenge can have many faces. Chris returns to Africa on a rescue mission and for his own revenge on Tricell leftovers, but what he finds drastically mixes the two up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So Wesker's gonna suffer a lot here, peeps. But Chris is lovely and determined as a miner prying a living out of solid rock. Also, there's an off-screen death of a canon character I did not tag for. It only matters if you really like Sheva. Because it's Sheva.

When it comes to dealing with one Chris Redfield, employing hindsight is evidently not a task Albert Wesker can be accused of often engaging in. Had he, the heroic idiot would've been dead the moment of their "reunion." Or at least after Chris rid him of the disgustingly handsy and simple-minded Excella Gionne. Opting for either would have kept Albert from this latest and possibly ultimate failure. 20/20 indeed.

Agony and blacking out are almost all he's known for what seems like the better part of an eternity. If suffering is life, then he's never been so continuously alive than he's experiencing. Save for the spare thoughts he still manages, pain would be the only thing speaking to his survival. Unless he's dead, and this is hell. One way or another, it's undeniably his own personal one. As he is, at the bottom of a volcano he feels lucky to remember, all he has anymore is pain. Pain that threatens to break him apart to no end versus for the purpose of building him into something new. Meaningless.

Through the anguished screeches in his brain he struggles for sanity and to just _think_. He knows one or both viral enhancements sees to his survival, but neither gives him the strength to so much as twitch. He tentatively believes that he will neither die nor escape, and nothing in that knowledge is empowering. But as long as he's thinking, he’s not lost himself entirely.

 _Stop it! Stop it! Just breathe! Stop being **stupid** and breathe, you idiot!_ Albert berates himself via a most odd calming method he hasn’t employed since he was a young man. He imagines slowly measured breaths, tells himself he’s safe and not there anymore and knows neither is true.

 _Get ahold of yourself, you damned idiot!_ Always berating because with weakness comes shame, and he is meant to exhibit neither. Self-deprecating because Spencer always seemed so terrifyingly powerful when he belittled him. Clearly, the old bastard had been onto something because criticizing himself never fails to empower Albert either. It does now though. More than once if he could remember.

 _You’re better than this, you’re better, **better** …_ Fretfully approaching another blackout, Marcus’ softer words are the subsequent aftercare to his method to transfer the direction of his hate from inward to outward - at everyone else. Emotional flailing is for the common, and Albert is anything but. Weak, delusional and attachment-riddled humans are so far beneath him. But there's no aftercare going on here, and his mantras sound nervous. This is simply to maintain thought life and is only proving useful for mere seconds at a time. Then it's back to a head full of shrieks, white noise or nothing.

Someone else might find this constant torment to be karma for a life poorly lived or wrongs committed, but there's only one wrong Albert can commit, and he's strangely sure the price Spencer promised for it is not this wildfire of agony. The few times Albert is sure the battle to keep his thoughts is in vain, he _KNOWS_ he blames Chris. Any irony is utterly missed when Chris' name is the only thought thus far that offers respite for an extended period, the insurmountable level of rage attached to it enough to at least challenge the agony, only so he can hate the idiot more.

Redfield. The stupid man of heroic morals to bolster, if not exacerbate, said stupidity is the proverbial thorn in his side and all the audience he has privately required to bear witness to the global cleansing Uroboros was meant to provide. With any luck he's never believed in, that plan is not as dead as he wishes _Chris_ was, and he'll find a way out of this mess and rectify those issues once and for all!

The pain hits again, full force - the only manner it ever does - and his skull fills with fierce screams that quickly turn desperate. In time, those deafening sounds are more akin to a constant ringing, and more time later he mercifully blacks out again. But before he is out despair worms in, a belief that things really cannot get any worse. There's no way he can know how optimistic the thought is, and at the tail end of two weeks, he can't think anything. Only knows the agony of burning.

======================

Eighteen days. It's all the time Chris gets to bask in a tentatively reached relief before his hesitance bears rotten fruit.

Chris stares at the muted news report, not really watching, but he can't sleep. Nothing new there. Nor on the screen for that matter, but he keeps an eye on it anyway. Kijuju had been hit by a small tremor some 36 hours ago, the volcano where their last mission ended letting out a small eruption - mainly of built up gases. No casualties so far, but he's concerned, had called Sheva immediately. She'd said it happens every few years, is nothing to worry about, but hasn't answered one of his calls since. Chris tells himself she's just held up with the fallout, but much as he wants to believe…

Brighter light catches his eye, the subsequent buzz of his cell against the coffee table pulling him from the trenches of concern.

Five hours of sleep was feeling like too much with he and Jill back resting in the states, but since the natural disasters, he's gotten anywhere from two to three. Dreams still aren't so welcome, his worries bleeding into his subconscious - telling him he shouldn’t trust that volcano, which he probably _should_ find crazy. But reality _has_ gotten lighter. Jill is back and that psychotic bastard Wesker finally took to death, though he’s less certain of the latter now. _Damn volcano._

Jill, while immensely relieved to be home, has been increasingly and openly irate over still not actually getting to _go_ home, held under observation at the BSAA lab as she is. Chris not only doesn't blame her but has plans of getting her an early release. Everyday he visits, she tells him how ready she is to stop feeling like "a fucking celebrity guinea pig" surrounded by “fanboys and -girls convinced there's a virus lying dormant in some random fucking cell,” and he reminds her that as long as nothing changes, he'll use his rank to bail her out. With an agreement to keep her close and bring her in every following week for more tests, of course. Simple enough.

Chris grabs his phone, persistent thoughts of that damned volcano and Sheva's unreturned calls and messages on his mind. The call is nothing short of a devastating blow, Chris' unfounded mere worry moments ago hammering in foundations and skyrocketing into a full construct of unadulterated sorrow.

Tricell foot soldiers had ambushed a BSAA convoy on its way back with a severely burned cadaver civilians discovered not far from the port. Three direct RPG hits left no survivors on-scene, and one MIA along with the body. There's no guilt when his main concern is if Sheva had been there, but the affirmative response fills him with it to choking. _I should have_ been _there!_ A robotic "of course" when his help is asked for, and the full weight of it all comes crashing down on him in the silence. He has 24 hours before the trip back to Africa and nothing to help him loosen the shaking grip on his phone. Jill.

After a call ending far too soon for Jill's liking, Chris spends the rest of the early morning and most of the day grieving, choice words replaying over and over in his head. Words like _'ambush'_ , _'no survivors'_ , and _'Captain Stone MIA.'_ But it's what he'd been told after asking about Sheva repeating to the point of overlap: _'…amongst the casualties.'_ He wishes he could wake up from this nightmare, not that he's finding any sleep.

Laying restless on his couch again, he calls Jill for a more proper conversation. She answers on the first ring. "Hey you. Figured you’d be up." And apparently that he would call. When he doesn't respond, "Chris, I'm so sorry about Sheva. She didn’t deserve that. None of them did, and I know you wanted to be there, but if you had…I'd be in your position," she tells him, "and with a lot less freedom to do anything about it.” 

MIA or dead do seem to be the only options he would have had. Or maybe he would've seen something they missed. Or done something.

“You bring down what's left of those Tricell shitbags. This is all on _them_ ; not you." He knows she's right, but he can't manage the words, even after hearing her give a small sigh of defeat. "When's your mission?" He feels bad, leaving her hanging and in search of a subject he might respond to, but even his guilt is numbed.

"Soon as I get there," his rasped response. “I choose a location and go.” This depression is going to get him killed. "Thanks to you the list of locations has grown," trying for livelier, but he sounds deader, fresh tears slipping down his motionless face reminding him he's quite alive.

"Wow. Okay. Just…Okay.” She pauses shortly, her voice tender when she continues. “You'll need your focus, Chris. People still need you. The world needs you, Josh needs you, _I_ …will _always_ need you,” she reminds him. “You didn’t rescue me from Wesker's bullshit so I can wither away in a lab. I wanna fight the good fight too… For us to be partners again dammit." She'd been upset when mentioning Wesker, but by the time Jill finishes she's quiet, imploring, and all he wants is to be there for his friend. _Like I should've been for Sheva._

"I'll come back, Jill." The only quiet comfort he can offer. "I promise." He hears her sigh, but can’t tell if it’s in relief. “And thanks, Jill. I’ve really missed the hell out of you.”

“'Course you did. I’m your bright beacon of light and hope,” she quips, brightly, forcing a sot snort from him. "There we go."

To get his head in the game, they discuss what's known and the mission to thoroughly raid every on-hand Tricell location. There's special priority on acquiring intel on new locations that could be so little as mistaken for able to power an entire lab until they have Josh back.

"Josh's MIA status is a promising sign, Chris." Jill insists. "Tricell isn't big on taking the dead with them, and we both know Josh isn't infected." While her positive attitude and logic is appreciated, Chris can only hope she’s right while not sharing in it. Josh may have been alive and uninfected directly following the attack, but there's no reason to believe he'll stay either for long, and that's a shitty reality they're both aware of.

"Y'know, with everything we already know, there's this one detail that's been dodging me,” he tells Jill, “but I know what it is now."

"It about the possible-Wesker?" Chris had brought it up during his first, abruptly ended call, and Jill had, of course, been way ahead of him there. _'Who else am I supposed to think of when I hear "charred to the bone"?'_ Who else indeed.

Besides Chris, that glaring detail is probably what she's thought of most since they discussed it, so his responding "yeah" shouldn't sound so shocked. "Tricell blasted every inch of that convoy, _including_ the body," he says. "Whether or not it's Wesker, if it was so important to them, why blow it up?"

Jill doesn't get it either. "Maybe it's not him? Still makes no damn sense. I doubt all they were after was a dead body, and the chance of live tissue _started off_ hella low."

"Maybe they don't want him alive. Tying up loose ends and all that," he says, but Jill scoffs, saying they should be so lucky. "But think about it, he started and lost the personal war he used their company to facilitate." Chris nearly says that Wesker got Excella killed, but Jill had already expressed the facts there, saying Excella had been so far up Wesker's ass she couldn't be bothered to consider Uroboros' rejection, that she'd simply met the end she and Wesker had no problem resigning the majority of the world's population - including her staff - to. No one was looking to avenge her.

"And maybe they know he can't die. I mean, if RPGs blasting him into a volcano didn't do it…" she says glumly, then sighs. "The hell'd they even know he was alive? Ugh, there are too many unknowns. For now, anything's possible." Chris hums in agreement. "The mega shitty part? If it _is_ Wesker, and Tricell, for whatever reason, is helping him, you're gonna need every ounce of that Redfield focus and skill just to survive him."

"Surviving does happen to be part of my plan," he offers lightly. Not that outright killing him really ever seemed to be a top priority in Wesker's psychotic plans.

"Holy hell… Can you even imagine what immortality is going to do to that son of a bitch's god complex?"

"My money's on 'not much'."

From there, the conversation grows lighter as Chris' eyelids grow heavier, Chris asking how she's holding up and Jill telling him how much she hates feeling like all she's missing is a running wheel.

"Traumatic as the notion should _probably_ be, imagining jumping out of one of these windows was the highlight of my day until you called. With the wheel, I can work on my momentum." Chris just laughs, the genuine mirth in his low rumble going on long enough that Jill can't seem to help joining in.

======================

Tricell soldiers finally haul Wesker's lifeless body past security and into the large facility. The towering man in charge of the seeming prison empties a cartridge of ammo into the blackened head and allows the scientist to take her samples. He has it brought down to the solitary confinement level where it's carelessly tossed into an unused washroom. The damp space is small, smells of mildew, and is bare but for a nondescript shower head that leaks. It's also the only room on this floor with a door, the deadbolt lock and remaining handle on the outside of it. The only light is out in the hall and won't be left on for a corpse.

Progenitor could not have survived such hellish conditions after so long without those PG67A/W injections, and it hardly seems a stretch to assume any impossibly clinging remnants of it as insufficient to revive said corpse.

"Let him rot in here," Colonel Sergei Vladimir tells the guard of nearly matching height at his side who curtly nods before they make their way back up. Sergei intends to forget. Once the stench of rot becomes a problem, he'll be more than happy to dispose of the mess himself. Until then, as far as he's concerned, he's just seen his least favorite past subordinate for the second-to-last time. The choice to hang onto the body until putrefaction sets in was a final amendment to Sergei's initial plans to simply do away with it. He has to be sure. For now, he has a BSAA agent to interrogate.

======================

The next morning, Chris is on a flight back to West Africa. He spends it in mental preparation for his mission, allowing himself to feel positive that working as a solo operator will help speed things along. He doesn't hang on to any hope of finding a random charred body, already too convinced of whose it was. What he does hope is that Wesker is dead. That his body was too weak from not getting those injections, and that the blasts did him in once and for all, leaving no body to find inside any facility.

The single hope he holds close is to find Josh alive.

======================

Six days later the screaming starts, Wesker in unimaginable pain, his skin- _all_ of him like a raw, exposed nerve continuously plucked. Awake and far from aware, he howls scream after guttural, ear-piercing scream.

Nearing the end of week two, his physical condition is improved, though much of him still throbs. He still screams when he sleeps and then for longer after waking, each spell lasting just north of an hour versus the several of before. Times he isn’t asleep or screaming spent prone on the cold ground in terrified anticipation, unmoving but for the hard quaking of his frame. Everything once bright, now dark. Agony once relentless, subdued. The ability to think lost to the constant agony of burning, all he’s done since is know very few things: he loses time and suffers. The sound expectation to be incinerated again never lets up as he lays in shivering wait and works himself into hyperventilating fits of tormented panic until passing out.

A sharp ache in his core eventually becomes noticeable. Thirst never consciously realized had been taken care of days before. When his hearing returned, the overwhelming change was a terrible fright that made awful screams resound and wetness slide down the sides of his anguished face until small involuntary noises were all that was left. And a quiet dripping. His body would later end up under it, instinctively dragging itself toward what it needed, his mind too ruined to notice. Unconsciously he'd slowly relieved some of his thirst through lips absently pursing and dipping into the small puddle on the damp floor he laid prone upon.

Hunger is another story. Without the fire, hunger’s gnawing ache is what physically pains him most by the end of the third week. Unfed, his body continues to feed off of ever-regenerated muscle as it has been for nearing two months now. Progenitor doesn't put fat on him, but it does restore muscle. Once starved again, his body metabolizes it in hours of stabbing but much reduced pain that sometimes makes him cry. So much has been happening, but he's quite ignorant to it all.

Petrified, hurting and waiting to be set aflame, he's only more deeply unsettled by how things have changed, how impossibly… _cold_ everything sometimes is. While there was no enjoyment in it, the receipt of agony had become routine, the one thing he yet did and that somehow made sense. It had stopped, and maybe that means he's dead. None of this makes sense. Everything about it is frightening.

It isn’t until the fourth week that things change again.

======================

It takes the BSAA almost a month to find information Chris believes to be a real lead. Or what could lead to a real lead. An agent retrieved a log from one of the raided labs, a log of arrests made against Tricell scientists and researchers there. The prison isn't far from the Tricell site, so the fact that all the scientists ended up there isn't strange but helpful. Chris' next mission is to pay that prison a visit and not leave until the warden lets him have a word with every name on that list.

Jill agrees that it's the realest intel they've found so far, warns him against getting too frustrated in the interrogations, knowing and sharing in an upset that's only been escalating as of late. A month is a long time for a lot to happen, and they both know that's not good for Josh.

In that span of time Chris has been shot at, battered, nearly blown up, and even spat at, and the last thing he's looking forward to is another smug face refusing to help him find his friend. Especially one he can't punch a hole in or even throw cuffs on. It's probably for the best that he won't be allowed his weapon on the premises. Eight names are a lot though, and one or some of them must know something, and Chris, at the very least, won't need to use muscle to get them sat in a room for questioning.

======================

Almost one month after locking Wesker away, Sergei's mind drifts back to the blond nuisance. Hardly the first time he’s thought of him, but he’s not just idly rethinking his choice to hang onto the body this time. While Sergei had that BSAA agent - Stone, he believes - to keep him busy, he's had nothing new for three weeks. Even the agent Sergei's simply added to his prison (for possible leverage, so long as he doesn't prove an inconvenience) seems bored with the monotony.

What bothers Sergei now is how he's received no stench-related reports from the guard running weekly sweeps. Five more minutes of brooding, and he's ready to find out why all he's heard about is the lingering scent of fucking barbecue.

Opening the vault door introduces him to that burnt odor, but it's nowhere near as bad as the urine. The latter an infuriating sign if the quiet sounds of distress he hears as he walks further aren’t enough. Seething, he turns on the light, and releases the deadbolt before throwing the door open and glaring incredulously at the ( _healed?!_ ) source of the soft litany. Curses rain down in his head as he marches up to the somewhat thinner, shivering and fitfully resting form under the leaking shower head.

A large thing is manhandling him, yelling at him, and it can't be possible. When he catches inconceivable _sight_ of the man, a sole word pops into the chaos of his mind: _bad_. And it is. Immediately. The larger man hitting him and shouting, and he can’t grasp these impossible events. The mistreatment prompts him out of pliability for the first time in so long, there's zero coordination when his quaking hands raise to waveringly protect himself from being struck and to counteract the abuse. Blows fall in harder after that, and he curls up tight as he can. Once it stops he can hear the bad voice muttering angrily, can hear fearful whining and keens.

What the hell is Sergei supposed to do with this pathetic husk of his enemy? The little black cockroach _can't_ fucking _die_ , and too much time melting in that volcano clearly burned away his thinking mind before spitting him out and into the lake. After yelling at him in a fit of rage to get up and explain himself, Sergei's left racking his own brain. _Can't kill him…_ All the research he'd done on the virologist and the pest's Progenitor strain, not once had he found so much as a footnote suggesting immortality. _Can't get him to do a goddamn thing but whine like a_ baby _!_

His choice of irritated words spawns a wretched idea.

Around five years ago, following several months of thoroughly perusing every file he'd stolen from Umbrella's mainframe, Sergei learned more about his would-be killer than he cared to after coming across Project Wesker. There was plenty to read, see, and hear. None of it pretty, all of it pitilessly purposed.

Albert Wesker might've acted the arrogantly impervious and indifferent snob, but Vladimir had seen the truth - a definite chink in that pristine little armor. He'd ignored it at the time, knowing all he could ever desire to take from Wesker was what Sergei was owed: his life. What he'd _watched_ be done to children had turned his stomach and oftentimes his gaze, but, freshly enraged and out of options as he is, Sergei simply doesn't care.

Truth is he won't even have to get himself dirty in the process for his plan, so if it proves useful, so be it. Wesker isn't a damn child anymore and there are more ways to kill a man than just the one.

Sparing no more words, Sergei drags the pathetic rat up to the prison, thinking how even the Wesker Sergei once knew would be appalled at such a lowly display. It’s a small appeasement.

======================

"So when do you fly out?" Jill asks, sounding eager as ever to hear what Chris has been up to. He knows being cooped up is driving her mad, wishes this whole thing could just be over.

"I'm thinking driving will give them a lot less of a heads up than a chopper in the area," he reasons. "Should take little more than a day, but it'll be worth it to go unnoticed until I'm actually at their front gates."

"Good thinking."

"Anything's possible, right?" he practically groans. Thinking that way can be exasperating, but it keeps his mind on its toes. Tricell could just be running the damn prison for all he knows.

"You’re thinking Tricell could be in charge of that prison.” Then she gasps dramatically, making him smile to know she's figured him out, “You’re thinking it could be the lab!”

“A prison should be sizeable enough," he says thoughtfully. "Should be able to power one, no problem.”

“And you’re _not_ taking a team?”

“Not yet. I have to be sure first. Don’t wanna spook them with a team. Not right off the bat anyway.”

“That's a lot of Tricell assholes in one spot," she warns. "I think it’d be wise to have a team on standby, just this once.”

“I know, Jill, but you know they’re-

“Short staffed, yeah,” she sighs, irritated but mainly worried.

“I’ll be extra careful,” he offers before she can tell him to. Just to ease her mind that much more, “And call you as soon as I’m out.”

“You better.”

======================

This is wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG, and he mentally pleads for something to only make sense again. His terrified gaze darts here, there, everywhere onto countless images as incomprehensible as impossible, increasing his panic until he simply slams them shut and tries to fall slack again and allow what just might be a new agonizing routine to play out. He can't even tell, but either the place he's in is highly unstable and ready to topple over or he is.

Once on the prison floor, Sergei tosses Wesker to the center of the open area while the prisoners look on with clear interest focused on the naked, cowering body.

"If you're going to lay around, whining like a bitch," speaking loudly enough that everyone can hear, "that is what you will be." Some of the prisoners have already begun to approach. He looks around to them, still pissed at what he's had to resort to, and tells the forming crowd: "All yours." Uneducated as these particular 'soldiers' of his are, many of them don't speak their mother tongue so well, let alone English. But others can and do translate as Sergei turns away, finished with the sight of Wesker’s continued existence.

He walks off, hearing a single pained cry as he takes his customary seat at the entrance gate - far enough away that the thick wall of bodies blocks his view, but close enough to hear if his idea goes over well. He pulls off a glove and studies his watch intently.

Not a minute later, he can actually hear Wesker's panicked breaths over the slaps of skin and the din of the crowd. In just under five minutes total, Sergei gets all the confirmation necessary in the form of shrieking screams and denials he could never have imagined Wesker was able to make. But those soon die down, and it’s only the repetitive sounds of rape he can hear.

At one point, the crowd breaks from its tight huddle, massive bodies flailing back as one with a collective _‘oh’_ , but they don't go far. Sergei nearly rises, belatedly recalling Wesker's strength. But the fierce crowd quickly closes back in, unfazed; sounds of violence and responding whimpers and strained cries coming next. No serum, no super strength, it appears. He'd expected to be asked about Wesker's eyes, but if the men noticed, they clearly don't care. _Animals_ , he thinks with a huff and a shake of the head.

"There you are, rat," the Colonel breathes, finally growing pleased at the smaller, subdued utterances. Cut-off and muted things the old Wesker would try for. "Nothing like a little buried trauma to help you out of the fresh." Smirk slowly evolving into a sinister smile. Every sound so far is exceedingly preferable to anything he's ever heard pass Wesker's traitorous lips before.

Mere seconds after the forty-five minute mark, a matured and pitiful weeping cuts over the mellower but never-ending soundtrack of gang rape - dark laughter and jeers, slapping. Vulgar still, but there is satisfaction. A shame it doesn't last.

That crying… So like those on the videos, and the Russian’s lip curls in a disgusted sneer at the memory, at Wesker _still_ ruining things for him, even in suffering. "Insufferable rat," he mutters, rising to his feet. Oh well. He can always keep an eye on and adjust the volume of the action via surveillance in the office.

======================

" _No_ …" Burning! He's meant to be _burning_ -! _Why_?! What _is_ this? Wh- He screams again as pain rips through his insides again, his cries practically in sync with the repeating sensation - again and again and again, howling and struggling, and why, whywhy _ **why**_ …

Over heavy grunts and other voices, he can hear tremulous sobbing and screaming, his chest struggling to expand against hard floor. He thinks there's blood, thinks he’s being-

Wallowing in a frigid (no longer smoldering) sea storming with terror, he resists drowning here too and doesn’t know why the effort frightens him. Hopelessly lost, he trembles, choking out terrified whimpers and broken sobs and gasping for air. He blames himself for all of the incomprehension and doesn’t know why.

Something like reason eventually tries to sink in, but it's only more confusing. _'Don't resist, boy!'_ Shockingly clear commands he can’t comprehend when others tell him _'surrender is failure_ ' and _'failure is weak'_. Abdication isn-

_'You are special, Albert.' '…my special little whore.' 'Attachments, compassion and abdication are for the weak … you are not weak.' 'Look how weak you are.' 'Never accept loss.' 'Your stubborn resistance is but foreplay, insolent boy.' ‘You are destined for great things.’_

_‘Deny your role in this world, **boy**. Repudiate and **fail** , and this is all you’ll ever be. A **good little slut** to be **fucked** by it! That's what you want, isn't it? You snivel like a worthless whore but see how much **you enjoy it** right **here** -!’_

A ragged, horrified cry ends memory lane.

Albert freezes - breaths, shivering, everything - at the memories. So long since he's had one it's overwhelmed him into a full-scale state of shock. A reprieve that won't feel like one under knowledge that's only just sunk in. That he's being used. He'd failed and he is being used. Not superior. Not a god. A _'good little whore'_. A long forgotten history hits him next in incomplete scenes that, for just a flummoxing instant, don't even register as his own.

Years fly by behind blown orange reptilian eyes, his slit-pupils razor thin. Formative years in Umbrella. Terror and confusion. Struggle and obedience. Mixed words drilled into a vulnerable mind. Confusing gentle praise from Marcus. Terrifying violent degradation and threat from Spencer. A relentless blur of abuse, injections, sickness, survival, abuse, training, injections, abuse, conditioning, abuse, education, abuseabuseab- Promotion. Lab work. Access to the outdoors. Birkin. Marcus' demise. S.T.A.R.S. Raccoon City. Sergei. Idiot Chris Redfield calling him pathetic. Tyrant. Death. Resurrection. Evolution. _Power_. Years of comfortable power and control, useful alliances and scheming, ending and beginning. Strength as though he’s a manifestation of power itself.

Laying waste to many, in search of newer strains of power. Desire to lead reckoning on a destructive, self-congratulatory and -degrading dead species on its rotten knees before the very things that killed it. A world not worth leading, but better knelt before him - the capable, the worthy. _'A god.'_

Gone.

It was over. Some fantastical dream that tried ending with him in a fiery hell, burning for what he'd thought would be eternity, madly damning one Chris Redfield to a hell of his own while still with the mind to do so.

It may as well have been a fantasy because when he frantically blinks his way out of shock's hold, it’s to the feeling of being viciously raped. A return to the abuse that left him unwhole to begin with.

Panicked and in pain, he erratically eyes what he can of his surroundings, but held down as he is, hearing the deep voices tells him more. They're all people. Crowded around him. Watching. Touching. _Breaking_.

The most he sees before he's slammed flat against the floor again is so much matching garb. Like prisoners. Is that what he is now? It’s almost funny.

Almost a joke, but instead of a derisively huffed laugh, it’s a frightened sound that escapes. Smothering it and his face in the arm not painfully wrenched behind him, his breaths start picking up, hot and moist against his face. Panting like a wretched hound, whining like a-

With all the strength he can muster he tries and fails to throw the one raping him off, heart pounding wildly against the hard floor. How could Spencer have been so right? How the _hell_ had Albert forgotten?

======================

Busy with other matters, when the noise from the monitors stops, Sergei looks to see only Wesker’s body remains out in the open. His watch tells him it’s been over nine and a half hours. Nine hours and forty two minutes. Wesker doesn’t appear to be moving, but it's been hours since Sergei's seen him move more than his head or hands. He isn’t making any sound the mics can detect. Sergei’s sure the men broke some significant part of Wesker’s spine all those hours ago, and can see from here the more obvious breaks.

Ah, well. He’ll just have to drag the rat back.

Carelessly tossing Wesker’s filthy, sluggishly bleeding, mostly shattered and laboriously breathing body back into the washroom, Sergei slams the door on silent suffering and smiles his way back to the office. Reports of the BSAA’s non-stop sniffing around are returned to his mind by the time he gets there. Switching the night’s security footage with a copy of one from no less than six months ago, Sergei then stores the real footage on a private drive he keeps disconnected. Even if the BSAA's best was to find the prison and search it, Sergei is confident they will never place it for what it is.

======================

 _I won't fight… I won't fight…won't fight…_ Returned to darkness and the sound of dripping, Albert repeats the mantra in his cowed mind. He knows now, hadn't truly as a child, had always fought and resisted - _'take it with grace and poise, Albert.'_ He squeezes his eyes shut against the memory. _Okay, okay, okay!_ He will now. Even though he’s already failed. He will. He knows it. Never has he been treated with such brutally blatant disregard. Broken bones, dislocated joints and snapped tendons, paralysis - new punishments he can expect for panicking too wildly, for biting and striking back in fear.

Excuses aren't helpful, but there had been so many men. After several black outs and lost time where he felt suspended in fog, coming back to the same abuse was too much. When he couldn't stop crying, he sometimes did stop caring about retaliation, just needing it all to stop. For only a minute. A particularly savage hit to the back of his neck ended his struggles, paralyzing him. Unable to move much more than his head, he could unfortunately still feel. Jaw shattered, there was nothing he could do to stop them taking him that way too. Over and over. Nothing he could do when they started molesting him or when even that quickly turned violent.

His penis continues to throb, as though whatever they'd shoved inside it is not only still there but has expanded.

He'd spent more time disoriented than not once hemorrhaging left him light-headed and allowed the ringing in his ears to take over. From there he fell unconscious for prolonged periods until they finally left him alone. It had been too late to fix anything then, but now he knows. _I won't fight… I won't fight.._ He will not fight, is so taken with his resolve he doesn't notice Sergei's return nor the stabbing injection that puts him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more horrible stuff coming. Still working on the...less horribles.
> 
> I'd give up, but there's kind of a lot there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more of the horribles.

After nearly four weeks of nothing, the ten minutes Chris has to wait before meeting Vlad Shepherd - the prison's warden and an oddly accommodating and exceedingly tall man - is a breeze. But learning nothing after five hours of questioning the scientists? That's an anger to rival what's been simmering in his blood since that dreadful phone call.

He nearly punches at least three out of the scientific bunch. The only thing that stays his hand is knowing he'll need to come back. To be welcomed back because what he knows to be true for all eight is that they’re lying. About everything. They all know of at least one other lab, they all know about the ambush, they’ve all at least heard of Josh _and_ Wesker, and they all know of another Tricell superior. So either some very choice phone calls had been made or received, or this prison is the facility he's been in search of.

Of course there are no kept records of phone calls. When Chris doesn't hide his disbelief there, the warden simply replies, "We are a small prison, not gifted with the innovations of more modern and populated facilities. I'm sure you've noticed even the wiring could use work." Chris doesn't think keeping phone records has been considered a new method for many years, but it's true that every light flickers if it works at all. Scanning the nearly blank visitors log under the strobing light of a fluorescent bulb, he spots no visitors for the eight in question.

"I am sorry you could not learn more, Agent Redfield," Shepherd tells him with the same pleasant tone he's been using since Chris shook his hand, the same hospitable tone he denied ever seeing Josh or a burnt body in. It grates on Chris' nerves, and he swears it's a ploy to get him to…what? Believe him? If anything sounds wrong, Chris isn't going to put any sort of effort toward hiding it, so he just eyes the man like he can't tell if he's all there. What this man wants, Chris can't say, but he knows a tactic when he sees (or hears) one. "I wish I could be of more help to you."

"I'm sure."

Though Chris has also been allowed access to Shepherd's computer to view the prisoners log _and_ surveillance feed, one more thing couldn't hurt before the day is up. A ground sweep. "I'm starting to believe it's me you'd like to have in an interrogation room next, Agent Redfield," the warden says inside a put-upon laugh.

"It's crossed my mind." Unlike this man, Chris has nothing to hide.

"May I inquire as to why?" as they make their way to the library.

"Because those eight men are lying," he tells him plainly. "They're here, in your prison, with knowledge they shouldn't have. And you're in charge of this place." _This shitty, poorly lit place._

The warden shrugs it off like nothing, "Perhaps you have misread them, or they have gained that knowledge from an online source." A non-existence source, since neither the BSAA nor Tricell would waste the effort. "All I can offer you is my cooperation." Wonderful.

The library is barely lit, smells of old dust, books and newspaper. The warden fills the silence to tell Chris that the space gets no real use and, in fancy words Chris can't be bothered with, that the last working computer basically took a shit a couple of weeks ago. Of course it did. The cafeteria is just as unimpressively lit, its kitchen's walk-in freezer dead but still serving a purpose as a sort of pantry. Inside it are countless large cans, boxes, bags and bottles of food and drink on shelves; three old refrigerators and two floor freezers, all under the low light of a single hanging bulb. The infirmary is, by now, as Chris expects - small, the machinery aged and only a pair of male nurses who greet Chris politely in their native tongue before carrying on their quiet conversation.

"What's behind the vault?"

"Takes you down to solitary confinement cells," he tells Chris with a mild half shrug. "The floor hasn't been used in years. Not since I became warden ten years ago anyway." Chris nods, clearly determined to take a look. "But, of course, you may ease your unwavering distrust with visual proof." Such a gigantic gentleman. Chris simply doesn't buy it.

It stinks of bleach - keeps the rats away, the warden says -, has no lighting, and is as unoccupied as claimed. "There are no doors on these cells."

"No. There are not," all the answer Chris gets for his fleeting confusion. Nothing about this place makes sense, Chris thinks, leading the way back up to the prisoner's cells - the only area actually well lit besides the warden's office.

Chris curses under breath on his way off the premises, gritting his teeth, beyond frustrated and ready to pull every last hair from his blameless scalp. What the hell is he supposed to do to speed things along now? As is true for the science team, he's positive the warden is hiding something too, but whatever it is, the casual set of his body suggested it wasn't anywhere Chris would find.

It's probably the truth to the facility the warden's hiding, he decides, but he'd looked everywhere. All he knows for sure is he's definitely not satisfied and isn't leaving until that changes, already dialing Jill to get her input. And vent.

======================

"How did he seem before he left?" Sergei asks his public stand-in once he, Wesker and the BSAA agent return from the underground lab, the latter two under sedatives yet to wear off.

"Unsatisfied, angry, resigned. He will return."

"He did not believe you?"

"Not me and not the team," his man admits. "Colonel, he doesn't seem ready to believe anyone. I even gave him a tour, let him look at surveillance - he _did_ believe you were me -," both men smiling with cursory satisfaction at that, "and the vault when that wasn't enough, but he's a man with a bone to pick with Tricell, I assume. You know how it is - running on hate," he offers with a half-smile.

"Heh. You are right about that. Have everyone keeping an eye on the perimeter," giving the man a friendly but heavy pat on the shoulder. "Good work, comrade."

"Understood," bowing his head respectfully. "I appreciate that, Colonel."

======================

Albert startles awake from tormented rest to the slam of a door and too-bright light behind a large, approaching silhouette. He doesn't move, isn't even sure if he can, already forgetting how he'd just done so in waking. "Get up, rat."

_What?_

"S-Sergei?"

"Good. You are remembering now. Can you walk?"

He tries, but everything still hurts so very much and nothing feels healed, so he tries again. And again.

"No? Fine. But you smell like shit, so stay-" flinging him into a corner so swiftly he barely has time to register being grabbed, "-right there." A rush of freezing water falls over him and he flinches hard into the wall but stays put. Sergei tosses something at him that bounces off his chest and makes him flinch. "Clean yourself."

Albert gingerly picks it up - a bottle wrapped in a cloth - with trembling hands, moves agonizingly onto his sore knees and does his best to scrub away the filth as quickly as he can, starting with his hair. But…Sergei?

"H-How?" he rasps, never looking away from him.

"Always business with you.” Sergei says, gazing down on him. He can’t yet make out any distinct features outside of dimensions. “If I could ever miss a thing about you, it would be that.” None of that is an answer, but Albert just keeps scrubbing and soon Sergei starts talking again. "You are wondering how I survived? I did not. You killed the last of many clones.”

Oh. He doesn't know if he should ask the other question pushing for an answer in his throbbing skull, but Sergei orders him to keep cleaning himself lest he gets someone to do it for him. He hadn't realized he'd stopped. Jolted into a prompt resumption, he's only just thinking himself finished when Sergei grabs him and pulls him out of the room, presumably taking him back up to be-

"Why- why a-live?" he stammers, interrupting the direction of his thoughts as he stumbles along awkwardly, groaning and gasping quietly as he can at every shooting pain.

Sergei stops at once, and Albert knows he's messed up, regret turning his empty stomach, a full body tension seizing him as a huge hand squeezes tightly around his throat. The larger man lifts him clean off the floor so they're face to face and just looks, giving nothing away as Albert quietly chokes for breath and fearfully stares back, not daring to put either mid-raised hand on him.

“I emptied my Mauser into your skull the moment your carcass was brought to me." Adding confusion to his fear, a spark of scientific interest entering and fleeing the conversation. "And that was after having you hit with three RPGs before your retrieval." Sounding pensive if a bit scathing, finally loosening his hold a bit. "You never were any good at following rules. Why follow laws of nature, is that right?" As though Albert survived on purpose to spite either nature or Sergei. Immortality was always Spencer's goal; never Albert's.

As a child, strength spoke to his immediate needs, and it speaks to them now. He's far too weak once again and misses it dearly. Pale brows come together for beat, in something like irritation, but it's subdued enough that Sergei doesn't seem to notice.

Or maybe he does, because he tosses him far ahead with orders to crawl if he can't walk. On hands and knees, noisily catching his breath, Albert drags his abused body forwards, Sergei easily passing him up with an order to hurry up. "You are healing a lot slower than anticipated. I wonder how long you will last today." And he can't help the stutter in his trying movements nor the broken, shuddering gasp, his head hanging even lower as he weakly continues in silent tears.

"Are you crying already? No one even touched you yet.” A tsk tsk following his condescending words. “You know, I used to wonder why you, proud as a spoilt cat, would so often have his head bowed." Albert's miserable downcast stare blinks into confusion. He’d never noticed. "You learned incredible shame long before you felt pride. Long before you had to hide those rabid eyes.” He tries to swallow down a building unease, but his throat won't cooperate, won't lose its tension. "Weren't you raised to be better than that?" So long as he reigned supreme… "Conditioned to be of a certain… _class_?"

When Sergei orders him to keep moving, he _can't_. Can't stop staring at him, shocked and frozen to the spot, pale cheeks streaked with tears that have instantly ceased. He whispers, "How can you know-"

"Because I found Umbrella's Project Wesker files," his casual interruption. "Now get moving before I play your home movies for everyone."

Albert is not unfamiliar with Sergei's thoughtless belief that _all_ punishments and difficulties are essential to improved strength, stated with all the ignorant conviction of one who's not experienced them all. But Albert's not keen on having his history shared, distraught that Sergei knows and _saw_ everything and is happy to taunt him with it. Struggling ahead, he can only assume the Colonel approves of Spencer's twisted methods, and that stirs something bitter and better left dormant in his chest.

"Let us see if you can take the day with _grace_ and _poise_."

" _Fuck_ you!" Already uselessly scrambling back before his teeth click shut. Sergei is on him in an instant, leant over him with a crushing grip pinning his throat to the floor.

"Choice words, little _rat_ ," the Colonel lowly growls in his face. He tries not to make a sound, freezing almost completely once his knees are up and his hands have flown down protectively. Sergei's focused displeasure flicks down at the rapid movements before meeting his wide gaze again with a disturbing amused curiosity.

Unsurprisingly, Wesker obviously expects something very specific from Sergei. He's wrong, of course, but what he doesn't know will only serve to torment him.

"You have had a lifetime of trouble following rules and maintaining loyalty. I expect _blind obedience_ from you, Wesker. I want your suffering. Like a beaten dog only kept for the joy of beating it," Sergei tells him with cold indifference. "You will show me that obedience now or I will paralyze you before your day even begins," delighting in the open terror shimmering in those ugly eyes, the immediately fiercer trembling and the way Wesker's Adam's apple works against his grip. "Do you understand?" The attempted quick succession of nods instant. "Good. I want you at. Ease. _Now_."

Dark glee glitters in his gaze once he gets his way - Wesker's hands and legs dropping along with the built up liquid in those lizard eyes. The Colonel suspects nothing short of paralysis will stop the trembling. "Very good."

The day is indeed long, and Sergei has little else to do than monitor the grounds, the network, and Wesker. It goes just as Sergei suspected it might. The prisoners get bored half into the day when the rat stops waking up and, therefore, reacting. Wesker screams while unconscious a few times, and the men angrily knock him out of that when he does, and after a few hours, Wesker startles awake to an eager crowd.

It seems meaningless to bother with the lower level any longer, preferable to simply leave Wesker here instead. Knowing his ex-subordinate, he'll cause trouble one way or the other, might even kill, but the world's never been low on criminals, and Sergei's soldiers are always bringing in fresh meat. So long as everyone obeys _him_ , he will let boys be boys.

======================

When Chris tells Jill about his suspicions, all she says is, “Asshole must’ve really been piling on the charm. Bet he offered you everything but access to their shoddy database."

He sniffs out a short huff of breath, a grim smirk on his lips. "Actually, he did let me look at the surveillance." The only technology they didn't seem to skimp on. "For hours. I don't know what I missed, but he’s hiding something," cursing under his breath again. “That giant asshole absolutely knew I wouldn’t find a thing.”

“Could be the entire place is Tricell's, like you thought. You think they have Josh or Wesker?”

“Not sure if they're there, but I know those assholes have heard of them. I couldn’t find any physical proof of Josh or Wesker having been there, but that doesn't mean shit. Those goddamn scientists lied about everything that matters,” he tells her, squeezing his phone a little too tightly, wishing it was that warden's neck.

"Sounds like everyone's suspicious. Anything stand out about the other prisoners?" And that makes him think. Makes him recall what had, until now, taken a backseat to the scientists and warden.

“Actually, yeah. Not one of them seems out of place, that's for damn sure. Around forty WWE heavyweight champions giving me dirty looks," he explains without humor, but it gets a snort from Jill. "These assholes stared holes through me. The 'get off my property or else' holes. Most of them showed signs of fighting - cuts, abrasions, even goddamn bite marks. And all powerhouses, Jill. Not some, _all_. All except for the lab geeks on that list. I mean, most of them couldn’t win the staring contest I was challenged with, but sizeable or not, there isn't a scratch on any one of them.”

"As if things aren't suspicious enough," she all but groans before a short pause to think. "Be careful around them too, Chris. If the _prison_ is a façade for something else, there's a decent chance they are too.”

“ _Shit_.” This just keeps getting better and better.

“I wish I could be there." She groans in frustration.

“You’d’ve wanted to kick the warden’s ass even more than I did,” he tells her, dead serious.

“Oh, I want to so badly there’s a tingle in my leg that has jackshit to do with all the running I’ve been doing,” she responds. “So what’s the plan? Scope the place out from way over yonder?”

“You know it. I had a good look at their security monitors. Got my eye on a spot where I can surveil the outside undetected. And the yard's fenced, not walled, so that's a plus.”

“Coffee, snacks and sun screen?”

"Check and check on the first two, but sun screen?" he asks, incredulous. "If anything, the ghillie's the way to go in this cloudless oven."

======================

Albert's resolve to not fight back never sticks, crumbling away after bare minutes each time he tries. Under a week later, the instinct making him lash out in fear controls him, and he resists unless physically unable. By the end of that week, he has bitten, clawed, fought, and thinks he's even managed to kill a few times, but he always, _always_ loses.

Countless times he remembers how hard he'd already worked to survive before, more details flooding in with each recollection. How he'd given up on his species, compassion, _everything_ for something stronger and with purpose and became a fearless beast from which all other monsters cowered. He’d been superior, worthy. He'd won. But those would-be empowering memories only cause harm now, make him react in the wrong way, and, therefore, do not last.

There'd been a man who'd spoken to him at least once, but his capacity for short-term memory is diminished and his mind in chaotic shambles otherwise, so he's unsure if the man was real or invented. Once Albert calmed enough to listen, the man had been… _painfully_ kind, had given him food he couldn't keep down and water much appreciated. _"And what else did he say, rat?"_ A voice he _can't_ ignore demands to know. Officer Something or Other from an agency that wouldn't stop looking for him and could help Albert too. At one point Albert had actually managed a few words - he didn't want to live this way. But real or not, he can't even properly recall the man's face or if he'd been brave enough to look upon it at all, and it's not fair.

Not fair that he was taught (and _believed_ ) that kindness was meaningless, and only now has felt and learned just how untrue that is. Not fair that this is where he is when all the enlightening introspection he'd somehow buried came bursting out at random. Forgotten piece by eye-opening piece revealing hardest truths.

_'So young, the possibilities are endless.'_ Those first words Albert had ever heard Spencer utter. Every belief held onto since he was five years old amended for the fear-driven acceptances they were.

Faceless children who'd died. All he'd wanted was to live. Constant terror he wasn't allowed to show, and hiding it from the world and himself with a mask of contempt and indifference - inward at first, but his hate grew like a black cloud to fall over the human race quite fast. Black the only color allowed and the only way he felt inside.

The indelible fear of failure that drove him to keep performing after acquiring unmatched strength kept driving him even after he'd killed everyone who'd ever hurt him. People he hadn't liked for reasons he hadn't known. A voice in his head that warned against failing to fulfill his destiny, promising a torment he'd never known should he.

Spencer's threats and preparations that thoroughly broke him for slightest deviations, forever worked toward a goal he didn't believe in. Every falsely perceived achievement - freedom, power, control, purpose. He'd become the programmed machine Spencer - who'd repeatedly ground him into nothing, then would make him feel like something once he was allowed to get up - built. A whipped beast that fancied itself freed of the many intricately placed layers of constricting and embedded chains it bore when all it'd done was allow wounds to heal over, hiding the damage from even itself.

Albert's truth is that he’s never had anything his own except lies and fear, and only now does he see and feel it; now that he can do nothing more than know. No freedom or power, no control or confidence, no friends or family. Nothing. Spencer worked to ensure it. Albert allowed it.

What the voice doesn't do now - what no one is doing anymore - is give him orders after he breaks. With little else except his feelings, he feels as he had when he'd first been taken by Umbrella: Scared, helpless and alone; another body climbing on top of him, another soft noise and small flinch from him. No words come for how he might possibly right any wrongs or build himself up. The hopelessness is new.

On top of it all, Albert is also realizing that he was wrong. In every act and belief. Wrong to detest kindness and compassion, to think himself above something as mentally beneficial ( _now_ ) as comfort. Wrong to betray and sneer at offered trust and friendship. Wrong to despise sufferers of the human condition when he suffered it too. Wrong to take lives that meant him no harm. Wrong to allow himself to forget just because he was too scared ( _weak_ ) to try anything else. There's no apologizing or making up for any of it.

It's not as though anyone would care for his inadequate rectifications, and why should they? He's undeserving of redemption, has nothing to offer a world that rightfully despises him back. So perhaps this _is_ fair. The world apparently wants nothing from him except for this, and he is nobody to deny it.

He should accept this too, tears stinging his wild, horrified eyes as he's savagely raped and masturbated too roughly, any pleasure long ago abused into pain. When he can think, all he especially wants is to die. The dazed, almost drunken states he sometimes falls into aren’t helpful anymore, as all he sees and hears during those moments is Spencer. Reminding him that this is the price for loss, telling him he likes it, that it's all he's good for, and any perceived kindness he foolishly accepts will only be used against him. Convincing him that all anyone will ever see him as is a whore.

He's positive of those words when a quiet voice offering water and comfort returns, when it throws piss in his face before kicking him in it, when it laughs at him while raping him too. Kindness, it seems, is above _him_ now.

And now, he knows he'll start crying soon, then he'll scream into a panic, panic into hyperventilation, and hyperventilate into oblivion. The white hot agony only ever grows worse and worse. Depending on how soon he wakes or is woken, it'll be done in a pool of his own either coagulated or coagulating blood. Then it starts again. He knows he deserves this, but admitting it makes him hurt more, his certainty there devastating.

After two weeks, all of his wretched thoughts and realizations are gone, and he only knows things again. Terror, agony and the anticipation of that agony are his companions once more in a new, inconceivably worse routine. The only thing that cuts past any of it is Sergei’s voice. When Sergei speaks, Albert cancels out everything down to breathing to listen.

Blind obedience or not, every action or inaction leads to pain, but Sergei - with his choice drugs to keep Albert fully awake and with skyrocketed sensitivity - he knows better than to deny. Even his sieve of a mind can’t forget the horrific event that began with a cervical break in his spine that, once more, left him mostly immobile and with sensations wholly intact.

Utter blindness under the excruciating lights. Gut twisting abuse to his genitals and being horrifically violated with impossibly massive things far too large in any direction to have simply been two men fucking him. By then, he'd already been quite familiar with being violated to that degree, and this felt more like someone may have shoved one or both arms inside him to rape him with. All because he'd been a touch too prideful and humiliated - both feelings dead and gone before he'd begun pleading unintelligibly past his broken jaw - to do as told.

Sergei’s voice is a threat all on its own. A threat to repeat that punishment Albert’s disobedience earned him, but that's a lesson that will never, ever need revisiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly all the terrible stuff is out of the way. Far as I know.


	3. Chapter 3

Come the end of week three the inmates are significantly less cautious with their prize.

Thanks to the Colonel’s incidental but markedly memorable discipline, the blond doesn’t speak anymore, not that he ever really did to begin with. A stray few pointless denials that first week, but never more than that, never any real begging. Even under the Colonel's reprimand, he's sank to pleading only twice. More notable is how adamantly he refrains from looking anyone in the eye anymore, those persistently frightened cat's eyes careful to avoid theirs. And though their mistreatment of him has only grown in brutality by the day while the time he's grudgingly allowed for rest and recuperation has declined, it appears he's given up on fighting back.

Unless the Colonel supplies that healing aid, once the blond's bleeding wounds scab over well enough, they’ve taken to regularly tossing him under a cold shower until he sputters awake. When that doesn’t achieve the desired result, they burn parts of him. Unless genuinely in a bad way, that tends to work best in rousing him into a bone-weary state of blubbering. The Colonel calls it pitiful, but they feel neither one way nor the other over his non-violence, just tearing into their target the second his cognizance returns.

In spite of all that, he hasn't attacked any one of them for days, only moves in meek attempts to protect himself and struggle or scramble away. Judging by what they’ve seen since his first day, he’s never healed enough to where he can actually get up and flee. Not that he has anywhere to go.

But where the pale man possessed something of a feral danger before, he’s altogether non-threatening now. He has clearly been thoroughly beaten into complaisance and is obviously too broken to do more than pull back, curl up, scream and cry, as those are really all he does. The tightly balled shape he favors takes a few of them to pry apart, but other than that, they have it easy and do what they like.

Specious reasoning leads to their handling him one man at a time, thus leading to the unthinkable.

He attacks. And never minding the fact that there’s nowhere to go, he runs.

======================

While the prisoners head out the open double doors and into the yard, Albert catches a glimpse of the saturated natural light beaming in and becomes mesmerized. His quiet tears abruptly cease, are rubbed away. Fixated, he tries to rise and cannot.

Pressure pins him down, rank puffs of hot humidity invade his ear. He slams the back of his skull hard into the one behind him, and labors to get to his knees. A tight grip in his hair aiming to steal his focus instead helps him up, and he half turns an indignant glare at a glistening neck and thinks nothing before his reaching arms wrap around and snap it, executed in a knee-jerk reaction. Like swatting away a fly. The normally arresting pains of each movement don’t even register past the insistent dull ache of his entire body.

Nervous but determined energy coursing through his veins and blood running down his legs, he zips on the dead man’s uniform and half stumbles, half crawls towards the door in a trance-like state after the last matching uniform. Towards the beckoning orange rays that so look like heaven. Towards salvation.

A guard at the open doors, chuckling in the aftermath of a concluded conversation, puts deterring hands on Albert upon noticing him. Faster than the man can do more, Albert snatches the modified AK from his person and impales him with its bayonet, gutting him while desperately peering past the stunned man. The weapon Albert’s white-knuckle grip doesn’t loosen from comes free of its owner's as the body hits the ground. Another obstacle out of the way.

Outside is even more beautiful than the glimpse suggested, and he's terrified for reasons that escape, an inexorable tremble affecting his frame and balance. Limply sinking to his tired - so very tired - knees, he takes in the comforting warmth and beauty as though it can fix him by means of absorption. As though it can make him those things too. A shadow dark against the light too soon foils his efforts and Albert’s trigger finger depresses on instinct, cutting down the obstruction, the racket bringing him out of his fugue state.

Utterly perplexed, the blurred sight of the falling and then the approaching danger takes precedence over figuring out where he is. Eyes flicking down to the weapon in his hands, Albert fires at the oncoming threats until the mag empties.

But more shots ring out, and they register mainly as deep, spreading pains in his torso. He looks up to see guns trained on him, then down to see the weeping holes in his… _clothing_? Dropping the gun and clambering back, he knows he's never been given clothes. Sergei would _never_ \- It's the last clear thought he has before being kicked to and beaten into the ground, the light obscured as forgotten.

Then Sergei's _angry_ voice cuts in, and Albert’s heart nearly stops along with the abuse before his lungs do, knowing what that anger spells for him. _Please, no, please…_

“Get up, rat.”

_Please, please, please-_

======================

"How's the tan coming along?"

"Cute. Jill, this sucks. I know you're all stealth-is-me, but you'd hate it too," he quietly complains. "And you know how yard time is usually a scheduled period?"

"Yeah.."

"Well, I nearly blew my cover last night thinking there was a damn riot breaking out when I saw these guys marching out after 9 o'clock." Honestly, what the hell? "And the Tricell geek squad? They don’t even come out half the time."

"Guess Tricell prison's the place to be when you’re a shitbag." That the place is being run by the pharmaceutical company is her final decision. "Especially with shitbags running the goddamn place. Shitbags who think it makes sense to say they don't keep a fucking phone log.” Jill hasn’t let that go since Chris told her, thinking it the most absurd detail of all. The warden had said he’d contact the phone company and get a copy of the records sent over, but he hasn’t called Chris yet. Jill thinks it more likely the supposed phone company will conveniently go out of business before he ever calls back.

“I hate sitting around,” he groans. Staying still when so much needs to be done makes him feel nothing short of damn useless.

“Surveillance is useful work, Chris,” Jill following and countering his thoughts. “Much as you prefer kicking down doors, doing that now won't help the mission.” He knows it, especially since the warden’s something of a door he wouldn’t mind kicking down. “They’ll get sloppy and you’ll be there to see it," Jill assures him. "First mistake: novice lying in the face of your Dr. House goggles."

"Oh, come on, Jill, I _do_ not think _every_ one lies…" he says, mildly defensive. "Just liars."

"Hey, if their tells were so obvious in near dark…" she reasons. "Do we know if there’s anything _below_ novice?"

Sure enough, when the sun is setting low on the horizon and everything is bathed in amber, that's the perfect time to let the inmates out. "Unbelievable," Chris grumbles, shifting to face the yard and tossing away the remaining piece of jerky he'd been chewing on before grabbing his binoculars. From where the sun sits on his right, he knows there's maybe an hour before the world is shrouded by the dark. The prison yard's floodlights - another "innovation" they've not cut costs on - will switch on in half that time.

Chris counts thirty-five bodies, is thinking how that’s one less than yesterday when a new face emerges. Every sense not vision goes muffled, Chris gaping dumbly as the bruised man he should but doesn't instantly recognize comes stumbling out the doors.

Gone is the self-assured gait, the arrogant indifference or derisive scowl; the signature shades and black leather, the perfectly slicked back hair, the damage-proof pale skin. It’s no wonder Chris hadn’t placed the blond man at first glance; he’s an absolute mess.

 _Wesker!_ Who, after a difficult few yards of employing an AK as a makeshift crutch, drops and slumps back on his knees to stare out at…the sunset? The expression on his face one Chris has never seen on him and cannot give name to because scared can’t ever be right. But it is the first word to come to mind before stupefaction at the unhealing marks on Wesker’s face supersedes Chris’ thoughts. It's almost as though he's not infected anymore, but he's alive, preternatural stare unchanged, so that's a solid no.

The inmates begin approaching him. Gun or not, there's about zero chance this is going to go fairly for Wesker, the direction of Chris' thoughts unable to shock him any more than he already is, because Wesker doesn't look like this. His expression alone is too uncharacteristic, but paired with the obliviousness? He thinks Wesker's mental faculties might not be up to par. Chris has a disturbing, creeping suspicion that this prison is home to schemes worse than he's imagined. But whatever criminal activity is going on down there, Wesker, for once, is not in on it.

 _He’s…a victim._ Though it had occurred to him that Tricell might be after revenge, Chris mulls over the alien words as he looks on, unsure how exactly he feels about his worst rival being another enemy's target, before stressing in bafflement over why an _armed_ Wesker isn’t doing _anything_ about the men plainly intent on attacking _him_. It's unseemly as hell; doesn't make any sense! They're getting closer, the closest nearly upon him, and Wesker just keeps focusing that eerie countenance up at the sun as though it’s the only thing that matters. “Dammit, you asshole… _Do_ something.” It's as if he's heard him.

A short bloodbath ensues where Wesker takes out seven, runs out of ammo and is shot by three guards before making to scramble away, only to be hit with a flooring boot to the chest and beaten not only by prisoners, but guards as well.

From there, things continue going from bad to so much worse for Wesker. "Shit…" Much as Chris is dying to believe it's deserved, he can't be sure what he'd be condoning.

Without so little as twitching from his prone position in the grass since the violence began, Chris' wide glare does a sudden triple take to really see who comes out in a warden's uniform to stop it all. Throwing off the ghillie suit, cover be damned, Chris sits up to watch the once known Umbrella executive direct a few words and his attention at his own former colleague. The man stands back while everyone watches down at the beaten Wesker as he begins trying to push himself up with great difficulty and a swiftness his body can't seem to afford him. In his lifetime, Chris has seen others move to follow orders like that, but the implications ruin the comparison.

"God _dammit_." Chris’ words a harsh whisper. More and more disturbing as it's becoming to watch, he _can't_ tear his eyes away. There's someone else he's reluctantly hopeful will show up, but he's finding it impossible to provide much focus to anything _not_ what he’s already seeing.

Heart slamming a wild rhythm against his ribs in an anxiety beyond words, he sees yet another familiar, equally tall man storm into view and make a beeline for Wesker. Chris groans an _'aw fuck'_ , cringing and flinching once or twice in sympathy as the man starts kicking him in the _groin_ over and over, Wesker curling up as best he can, body spasming at every blow. By the time the man relents, Wesker’s gasping pained grimace turns in Chris’ direction, his eyes squeezed shut and body convulsing against the grass. Arms underneath himself, hands no doubt between his legs. "Dammit, Wesker…" Rival or not, that was fucking excessive.

Chris nearly thought the first warden he saw was that Shepherd prick, but he's the one who'd just laid into Wesker's genitals. Chris has a clear view and idea of who the real superior is. His is a face Chris recalls seeing in the S.T.A.R.S. archives years ago, directly after T-A.L.O.S. and the eradication of Umbrella. A face marked as deceased because Wesker himself had killed the man before aiding in said destruction. Tricell may not be getting their revenge on Wesker, but Sergei definitely is. The fact that Wesker is still alive speaks volumes. _Son of a bitch._ He really can't die.

Eyes glued to Wesker's suffering, Chris watches with a lump in his throat as Sergei Vladimir approaches the prone, fiercely trembling form. He's finally accepting the only worsening expression he'd seen earlier as fear. _No_ , he amends with weighted sympathy, _terror_. Sergei and these people have to be torturing him because he's terrified. Particularly of Sergei, from the impossibly frightened look of him. If Chris didn't know any better, he'd say Wesker is on the verge of fucking _begging_ , and his head can’t stop spinning. Can't stop trying to figure out how - violence or not - that's even possible.

How the hell can this be reality when it feels more like a break from it?

Never in his life could Chris have imagined seeing his oldest enemy in so helpless a state, or experiencing such an abnormal urge to protect the typically resilient and unflappable bio-terrorist asshole who’d once thanked Chris for nearly taking a bullet in his stead by calling him stupid. In truth, Chris only felt stupid for it after learning who Wesker was, more so when he came back after Tyrant killed him, and yet more when his instant healing became the norm.

But obvious changes have occurred in Wesker’s system. No tentacles or blackened flesh to suggest Uroboros' existence means his body is likely cleared of it, and it's still his old virus keeping him alive. Only now, the rapidity of its effects have to be reduced. Chris suspects that’s due to a combination of not receiving that serum and the damage his body sustained during and after their last battle. He'd been utterly incinerated. Had somehow recovered from that to get to this clearly still weak point while in the hands of these people.

Under the new circumstances, excessive beatings and wounding like this would've kept him from healing, but to be keeping him down? Like this? Can repetition of that violence be why he looks so wrong? Chris isn't so sure. It's true Wesker could have riled them up. The asshole did enjoy his nagging taunts and never did know when to shut the hell up, but whatever these guys are doing to him appears to have cleared all of that arrogant venom from his system right along with Uroboros. He's not even moving to defend himself anymore.

For years Chris has thought Wesker as evil as indomitable. Has always surmised nothing short of death could keep him down. But the terror he's seeing is real, and he'd pinch (or stab) himself if he thought it'd make a difference. If it'd set the world right again and give back his deserved hatred for the man.

Swallowing tightly behind his binoculars, he stares down at the impossible as Sergei stoops down, lips moving, and pulls out a…syringe? A syringe that Wesker flinches hard from, cringing away while laboring even harder than before to force himself up onto his knees, falling over a few times before managing and bringing shaking hands up to his chest.

Frowning deeply in mad confusion, Chris sees Wesker struggle with what turns out to be gripping the zipper. To…tug it down, and jerkily shrug his _remarkably_ bruised upper half from the clothing. The bleeding wounds in his equally marred abdomen are only just revealed before Sergei kicks him down onto his back and rips the coveralls down and off, exposing everything.

Chris stops breathing. Doubting reality again. Damning and rejecting it.

Quaking and fully bared, Wesker hesitantly makes to cover his blood-coated modesty, closed legs only just coming up a bit. He must think better of it because he lets himself fall slack as he can with how hard he's shaking. Then he spreads them apart, terrified regard plastered on Sergei until it quite visibly isn’t. Sharply turning his head so that Chris has to dilute mind-boggling illness with returned sympathy. Has to get past the abnormality of seeing Wesker in terror to mentally fumble over watching him cry in it, a horrific understanding fallen over him. Knowledge he wants to reject sinking barbs into his brain, infecting it with dizzying pangs of truth.

The entire expanse of unveiled skin is a canvas of angry marks. Countless telltale signs of the nature of abuse plain as day on Wesker's normally unblemished pale skin.

 _No…not that._ You know it is.

 _Don’t be that._ You know it is.

 _It can't be._ It can. It is.

 _ **How** can it-_ **Easy**.

His denials instantly shot down in the face of so rarely cold logic. Chris swallows back the rise of bile, slowly blinking back an unexpected bite of tears having nothing to do with feeling ill.

======================

_"Get up, rat."_

Much as Sergei wants to take his time with his little rat, healing him seems a waste; and it isn't as though he's outright disobeyed Sergei. Wesker's multiple bleeding wounds will probably render him unconscious before the hour is up, and that's well enough.

After the show his ex-subordinate put on, the Colonel engages in one of his own. _Reciprocity_ , he muses, letting Wesker’s eye catch the syringe as he again demands he get up and remove the pilfered uniform. "Stealing,” the word dripping with disdain. And Wesker does get started, but he takes way too long to strip the damn thing off.

Ultimately intervening to kick Wesker down and complete the task for him, Sergei then stands just beyond his feet and orders him to spread his legs. Sinister joy slithers onto his features as Wesker hastily wars against instinct, forcing his legs apart in severely disjointed motions. The low glow of his wide eyes focused on Sergei's hands, Wesker's own fingers digging past the grass for holds in the earth.

"Avert those abominations.” _Before I carve them out again_ , he doesn’t bother to say, Wesker’s head already turned away upon _'avert'_ , breaths hitching even more now that he can't see what's coming. "You will not make a sound." But already there’s a wheezing littering each fervid exhale, and Vladimir passingly muses over the possibility of a punctured lung. It won't be the last puncture his rat receives tonight.

Sergei pulls out a double-edged blade, lets his tongue dance freely and bloodily over its tip as he closes the space between them, becoming disgustedly aware as he does that there is no damaged lung. That Wesker is just so damn terrified that strangled mewls and tiny whimpers disgrace every expiration. "Pathetic." Ignoring the rising sounds of fear, he drops to one knee between the tremulous V of those despoiled thighs, brings them up and further apart, and drives his blade into that well-plundered hole.

Fingers gouged into the dirt, Albert shrieks and howls for all he’s worth. Slams his teeth and eventually his lips shut against noise he knows better than to make. But even when those teeth are bloodying his lips, stifled and high noises keep finding ways past the constriction of his throat. As usual, in the face of Sergei’s displeasure, it’s a near thing to not break down into groveling apologies and pleading - he’d done so at least once before and paid dearly for every unpermitted word.

No amount of anything helps. No one willing to waste kindness or mercy on him since that soft voice that used it against him. Mocked him for needing it so badly, for so easily falling for it. _‘Save it…There’s no one left to help you now.’_ Wherever he’d heard that, he came to learn it was true. Fuck did he ever learn it was true.

Albert can only force himself to endure the agony that could be so much worse, and in time, instead of the sharp sounds of hardly suppressed keening, he’s down to choked sobs. A minor improvement. Ridiculously stupid that he cries at all, but he’s always so miserably weary, totally unnerved and altogether _hurting_ that he can barely think that way anymore. He just has to stop. So concentrated is Albert on doing so, there’s no room for noticing that it’s not all he’s doing wrong.

Large hands pressed to the countering weak squeeze of Wesker's inner thighs, Sergei eyes the exposed portion of his blade, lightly considering the sterilization it will need before he ever runs his tongue over it again. The thought puts an idea into his head. "Fighting me, _suka_?" His tone deceptively casual as he settles on his plan.

Albert tries, he really does. Fights to ease the powerful grip of tension, to end his convulsing, arching and writhing. Repeatedly fails to do the impossible and just relax until finally, finally, _finally_ his body complies enough that Sergei removes his hands after a hateful, flinch-inducing _'hmph'_.

"Have I _ever_ given you permission to go outside?" Sergei demands to know, Wesker's cries down to quieter mewling and tired, stuttering sobs breaking with what Sergei gladly imagines is miserable regret. Smirking at the blond head weakly shaking in the negative, the Colonel very slowly nods, "Exactly," and harshly twists the blade before ripping it out.

Albert loses his voice in the intensity of his screams, a final hoarse wail breaking off into heavy toneless sobs. Fingers no longer grasping for a grounding hold in the soil, his lower arms and hands mindlessly rub short to-and-fro motions against the soft grass in a positively pathetic search for anything close to comfort.

"For your disobedience," all Vladimir intones before he slices deep into the muscles of both inner thighs, guaranteeing they'll stay splayed. “And for having the balls to disobey me.” Sergei directs men to hold Wesker's arms down and proceeds, with a tight cinch and a quick slice, to geld him then and there. Leaving the mess as is, he stares down hatefully as Wesker's flushed anguish becomes something ghostly pale, lifeless and lost, and choking for breath past silent, dulled crying. Only the blade is in need of a good _sterilization_ now.

However much pain Wesker's shuddering body is in, a small dose of Sergei's drug will make him wish for the blade again. Excuses for hurting him aren't necessary, but the Colonel entertains himself anyway. "What did I say of the noise?" Vladimir's cruelly amused, low tone audible over hard gasps for air and bringing life and fear back into that resigned and unfocused gaze, color back into those cheeks. Thinks it perfectly pitiful when Wesker's limp hands come up to drop over his streaming eyes as he breaks again and tries to hide.

The miserable look of him - the forceful undulating of his Adam's apple to uninhibited sobs below that crumpled chin under an inconsolable stretch of lips - practically a plea for mercy all on its own, though Wesker very rarely ever begs with words. Or even gestures anymore. Sergei finds himself idly wishing the blasted rat still had voice as he takes hold of a raised arm, pulling it taut for a quick injection as the other hand drops down in search of its hold in the ground once more.

Stepping back, he politely waves the awaiting inmates over to Wesker's barely audible, livening cries. There's no real use trying to keep him conscious for longer this time, but the increase in pain is still good entertainment.

"Worthless _rat_ ," the Russian mutters. "You will stay inside from now on, won’t you?" Smirking when, even amidst soundless screams of agony, Wesker nods before he’s pulled up and being manhandled.

It is a fact that Sergei had never told his little rat not to go outside, or to not ever clothe himself or steal, but it's equally true that there are countless actions he hasn't warned him against. He does it on purpose, finds amusement in catching Wesker doing something new only to tell him he'd never given him express permission to do it. Honestly, he's amazed that Wesker continues to do anything at all.

The inmates are never lacking when it comes to violence. Four roughly position and hold Wesker in place so two can rape him at the same time. Another takes a lighter to his genitals, and yet another makes room for himself to force his hard length past bloody lips and down a ruined throat.

Sergei looks on dispassionately as the man with the lighter between Wesker’s legs begins heating what looks to be a rather large and squared landscape spike. All in all, this should lead to a decent enough ending in Sergei's book. The mess - dripping onto and coating the grass - one that won’t even need to be cleaned.

Some twenty minutes later, Wesker's limp form miraculously remains half conscious and gasping soft and sharp breaths in the fatigued remnants of so much arduous crying. An inmate with a bloody forearm continues plunging it into Wesker from behind, another doing something between his legs, while Vladimir and his stand-in share words. His rat is an odd little creature, killing a prisoner - and then an _armed_ guard! - when no one was looking. Sergei had smirked at the absurdity of it as he'd watched it play out on the surveillance feed.

"Can never trust this one, not even when he is down," he's saying, his smug expression instantly falling away when he hears before sees the oncoming rocket. Opening his mouth for a warning that never comes as the explosion hits the ground at his stand-in’s feet.

The Colonel’s wounds stitch together, his eyes opening at the sensation. The world is coated in red. Growls and thundering footfalls fill his ears, as though a hell hound bounds after prey inside the bone arena of his skull. Limbs moving to push himself up, another rocket explodes in his face.

When he comes to again, the rabid growls are snarling, the hound's pace deafening.

======================

Chris couldn't watch more after Vladimir plunged that blade into Wesker. The shock of it like a thunderbolt startling him to his feet, every hair standing at attention. _What the hell am I doing?!_ He had to _move_. Downhill he’d rushed before racing the several meters to where tangled masses of vegetation hid the bulletproof wrangler he then drove back the way he’d came. Once in the jeep, he’d dialed for backup, informing the BSAA that he'd found Captain Stone, that the prison was being run by former Umbrella bio-terrorist and possible tyrant Sergei Vladimir.

Given an ETA of three hours for an assembled team to arrive, that was almost three hours too long. There was no time to wait, and he’d said as much. The ambush this time was going to be his, and all he'd asked was for medics to accompany the agents and word to be left with Jill that he would call her the moment he could, leaving it at that.

Josh’s was the face he’d been hesitantly hoping to see. Josh who’d been taken _with_ Wesker. By people who were carelessly tearing into Wesker. And after only minutes of seeing _how_ they did it… No. Letting his mind wander down that road was pointless.

Chris had mentioned nothing of Wesker to the BSAA, and the only uncertainty he had where Stone was concerned he’d taken care of by asking for medics; he didn't know what condition he’d find Josh in. As the saying went, he hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.

And while Wesker definitely needed help too, Chris couldn’t just expect the BSAA’s compliance there. Without lingering on the hows, Chris knew he'd do what he could to help Wesker too. No one deserved what he was going through. Had _been_ going through.

But Chris’ inner guilt was unavoidable. Guilt the reason he hadn't called Jill himself. Guilt over his unfailing compassion that would have slipped into their conversation had he called her and mentioned Wesker. His intolerance of _all_ torture, even when directed at someone he'd, up until very, _very_ recently, wanted dead for years would have been intolerable for Jill to hear. Where Chris never hesitated to use force against Wesker before, had dreamt of beating him unrecognizable and slapping restraints on him and tossing him in a cell, he was ninety-five percent sure applying that attitude here would only be cruel. The man was already beaten…and being abused.

But logic and guilt warred with Chris’ emotions. Logic that sounded a lot like Jill. Shouting that Wesker was a bio-terrorist - an _'immortal bio-fucking-terrorist, Chris!'_ \- murderer who was _‘cruel as fuck’_ and cared about no one and next to nothing. None of it could even begin to challenge what he’d seen. Jill’s no-nonsense tone told him to give the messiah complex a break, that he was here to arrest Wesker, not help him, but Chris would do both. It said that Wesker got _himself_ here, and Chris just shook his head.

Driving uphill with a head full of disapproval, Jill's voice was saying that Wesker had been ruining their lives for years when a chilling counter eked in: _He saved yours_ , and Chris had nearly hit the brakes. He didn't believe that. Did he? _Could_ he? Never consciously, to be sure. Especially after seeing what Wesker did it for. Sparing her life to imprison her mind and infect, then enslave her body. All for the apparent enjoyment of getting under Chris' skin.

Torturing Jill to make Chris suffer. Which was the real low blow to his partner. How personally she would forever _have_ to take it, when as far as Wesker was concerned, the personal attack he'd made was on Chris; Jill merely the means.

She knew all along too. Wesker hadn’t hid the fact, she'd eventually told Chris. He'd taken advantage of her awareness, telling her in a million delighted ways how he couldn’t wait for Chris to find out, so he could watch _her_ kick the relief clean off his mug before doing the honor of removing Chris off the playing field entirely.

The pleased, genuinely amused smile on that ever smug face to see the look on Chris' upon the reveal. Like what he’d done was little more than a hilariously insulting competitive move against Chris in their never-ending battle. Their fight drawn out and with no conclusion simply because Wesker apparently both preferred it that way and had some sick need for Chris to witness everything he did.

And that's the insane, infuriating bastard Chris feels for. Who was crazy now?

“ _Me_.” Knowing helping him was the right thing to do, he rushed to put an end to the sickening filth carrying on below.

Under no delusions about the sheer evil he was about to lay waste to, Chris knew it was be kill or be killed. Tricell had already taken enough good lives to prove that as fact. _“…bring down what's left of those Tricell shitbags”_ Jill’s actual words echoed. This was the moment to do it. For Sheva and the lost agents. For Josh and, yes, for what they were doing to Wesker too.

 _He can't die anyway_ , Chris told himself of Wesker as he loaded the launcher and fired it to take out Sergei and however much rapist vermin he could. Bodies and pieces were sent flying in every direction, the death and gore surprisingly preferable to the somehow even worse horrors Chris had unfortunately just gotten a glimpse of.

 _Forgive me, this is the fastest way I can help him_ , loading the second rocket and aiming at Vladimir's visibly moving form amidst dead bodies under the floodlights. After firing, Chris switched the launcher for a sniper rifle and made short work of picking off remaining guards carelessly shooting at and around Chris' spot on the hill. Maybe it should have been predictable, but Chris was a tad taken aback to see what few inmates yet lived with guns of their own. They eagerly joined in the shootout, meeting the same fate as the guards.

Having taken out anything that moved, Chris hops back in his jeep and speedily brings it down toward the wreckage his attention never falters from. Sergei Vladimir may indeed be infected with a virus that'll turn him into something far more huge and monstrous. Possibly into a replica of the unknown thing Wesker had once killed.

Neither seeing nor hearing a thing to suggest such a transformation, he smashes straight through the perimeter fence and takes cover behind the bulletproof wrangler, opening the back to avail himself to the weapons and ammo-filled trunk space. Stuffing what he can into a duffel bag, he hears it - the guttural groans and roars of transformation. A monster needing to be taken care of. Just… "Great."

" _RRREDFIIIIIIIELD_!"

A monster that knows - and can _speak_ \- his name, which is miles from flattering and just shy of creepy as all hell. "Yeah, I know your name too, Sergei," he calls out, muttering, “you sick fuck,” under his breath. Just stepping past the cover of his jeep, a long, swiping tentacle-like limb knocks the wind out of him, leaving him on his ass and back behind the vehicle. The tentacle's large-bladed business end just misses him but not the side of the vehicle, leaving a huge dented slice in the ammo resistant panels.

"Oh, shit," he quietly exclaims, stunned and breathless. Rolling up to snatch the duffel bag from the trunk space, he then dives for the ground with it in dodging another swing of the blade that audibly tears through the side doors again. "Shit, shit, _shit_ ," cursing in harsh whispers before he opens fire on the now exceedingly towering, misshapen mass slowly advancing on him with heavy, thudding steps. The bigger they are, right?

Putting space between himself and the writhing mass isn't too difficult with how slow it is, but its long strides ensure Chris has to keep moving. Duffel bag on him, he races back through the hole in the fence, turning as he does to fire at the monster so long as the dangerous sweep of that limb cannot reach him. He tosses grenades to hinder its already laggard approach, the explosives setting its four tucked in upper limbs to swing back erratically. With its arms spread, Chris is given a good view of a glowing yellow bulge hidden under the pinks, purples and blues of exposed musculature, venous system and tendons of its torso. Shooting at the illuminated lump makes the grotesque thing convulse and groan loudly in pain, signifying a sweet spot.

Several minutes of gunfire seem like hours per. Chris is running out of ammo and getting desperate; but, after finally shooting off that lethal tentacle, he has an idea.

Hopeful that his attacks have done the job of weakening it enough, he tosses his two final grenades simultaneously - one frag, the other incendiary - and waits for the blasts to send the monster's body and limbs flailing back. With a final prayer to the universe itself, he fires his last rocket at the bared yellow and watches Sergei Vladimir jerk, convulse and bubble away into so much muck. As repulsive in death as he'd been in life.

Advancing towards the initial blast site, Chris begins his search for Wesker.

Looking over the well-lit wreckage, the scent of burning tainting the cool night breeze made warm by dying patches of fire, Chris spies a shock of blond in the bloodied mess of everything coating and surrounding Wesker. Crouched down, movement beyond the yard catches his eye. Chris looks up to white coats fleeing.

 _Goddammit, the scientists!_ And _more_ than eight. "Hey! _Stop_!" he calls, taking off after them, knowing better than to expect cooperation. He fires a shot into the dirt inches ahead of the frontmost coat. _Oh, hell._ The next shot is a clean one through the man's leg, a cry resounding before it drops him. That gets their collective compliance. "I said stop."

Once he herds them into the yard, Chris gets a better look at the silent lot of them. Of the extra four, he's surprised he recognizes two - one of which is the man he shot. “Infirmary doctors, huh?” Both focus on the ground, the wounded gritting out that they, in fact, are. Ordering two of the men to haul Wesker's destroyed body along, they make their way into the prison. Chris would do the carrying himself but he trusts these people as far as he can throw them. He’s not dropping his guard or gun in their presence.

Josh is in an underground lab, and the way there is through the warden’s office.

Privy to the information that matters most, Chris needs no chaperone, but Wesker's condition has him reconsidering that. He allows the injured man to tag along so that he may patch himself up and tend to Wesker once there. After locking the remaining eleven in two cells, Chris too effortlessly drapes a bloody Wesker up over a shoulder and moves on.

Chris uses the time to question the wounded man - virologist Shaun Wilson from South Africa - on the way. Wilson warily imparts what he knows, which isn't much when it comes to how exactly Wesker and Josh wound up on the premises. He tells Chris that Josh has been down in the lab for over two weeks now. That the agent was brought - mostly unharmed - in with Wesker - completely incinerated - some two months ago.

The timing lines up perfectly for when that goddamn volcano erupted, and Chris can only allow himself so many quick seconds to dwell on how unbelievable reality can be, to think of what all had to have occurred for it to be what it is - the volcano ridding itself of Wesker, Sergei catching wind of his burnt remains - before he focuses on Shaun's words again.

Physically fine at first, Josh's status there took a turn for the worse when he sustained injuries in an altercation with inmates that left him near death. Something to do with “the blond”, as Wilson refers to Wesker.

It’s easy enough for Chris to put likeliest pieces of what lead to the brawl together, but Shaun doesn't know the full details, only the injuries. When Chris immediately asks after the nature of violence, Wilson is just as quick to promise that Josh was strictly beaten.

"Okay, but why is he _still_ in the lab?" he practically growls at the limping virologist beside him. "What the _hell_ are you doing to him?"

"Nothing! It's only for his safety!" Shaun nervously blurts out. "The Colonel did not want him harmed again after the incident. Your agent's been asleep, on-on a sedative, nutrients and regenerative medicines since. Thanks to our science, he's made an otherwise impossible full recovery."

Chris stops to regard him, sees Wilson painfully falter back in fear as he does.

"Thanks to _you_ ," leveling him with an accusing finger of his gun hand, "he was in danger in the first place. Thanks to the company _you_ work for, a whole lot of good people are _dead_!" he counters. "Anything in your lab for _that_?" Shaun merely eyes the floor nervously.

In spite of his fear, he quietly tells Chris that the men who'd executed the ambush he's referring to were insubordinates, that the Colonel killed them all before they could leave the premises. "The blond and especially your man were never meant to be here."

"Yeah, well, unlike you, it wasn't up to them." The look Wilson gives him doesn't appear to hold an ounce of disagreement. Like he knows it but could do nothing about it. It isn't difficult to imagine the group of them were afraid of Sergei, but the choice to work for Tricell was their own, and that's a hard strike against them.

Appeasing as Shaun probably thinks all he's said is, Chris is still pissed; Sheva still dead. But he does have one concern: Side effects.

“None at all,” Shaun assures him. Their treatment will leave Josh good as new, but he falters in telling Chris that Sergei plied Josh for days with some mind altering substances after the fight. He nearly shuts down when Chris' eyes widen in rage, but he apologizes instead.

"I’m sorry! But the team had nothing to do with that, I-I swear! We don't even know what he did or how he did it!" It hadn't a thing to do with viruses. Urging him to continue with what he knows, Chris curbs his anger and learns that Josh may never remember his time here; may not even recall the ambush. “I only know because the Colonel assured us that the lab’s existence would remain secret after he released the agent, that his memories of this place were simply gone.”

"Of _course_ ," all subdued fury and plain frustration. Of fucking course he did that. But, at the very least, it sounds as though Josh is safe and alive. Chris just has to see it to believe it. "If he planned on letting Josh go, then why the hell hasn't he done it already?"

"I have wondered the same."

"Maybe you should've asked."

It looks to Chris like Wilson wants to say something before they turn into the office, but he never does.

Once inside, the impressive stainless steel elevator doors stand out, revealed from their hiding place behind a wall unit that’s been tipped over. The office chair on its side and executive desk looking shoved out of the way, the items previously neatly set atop it now strewn across the floor. “Emergency exit?” Rhetorical as the question is, Shaun nods glumly, still in low spirits over their discussion.

In the case where Shaun is a spectacular liar and there actually are more Tricell people anywhere with surveillance access, Chris does himself and the en route team the favor of shutting it down.

“Guess this is where all the power’s being routed.” Passing through the first set of sliding lab doors, Chris carefully moves with Wesker in one arm and his readied gun in the other hand. "After you," he tells Wilson, who limps by, warily eyeing the aimed weapon as he does.

"As I've told you, there is no one else left," Shaun quietly mumbles as he moves past. "Your friend is just over here," a hand to indicate the space to his right.

Unwavering gun trained and ready to fire, Chris uses it to peek past an obstructing curtain and into the room. But, looking around, he finds all his caution is for nothing. Drops his aim in a rush of breath, relieved.

" _Josh_." The agent lays unconscious under a few layers of pale sheets in an inclined, heavy duty bed, attached to an IV and a beeping heart monitor among other things. No breathing equipment. On the outside, everything looks to be okay.

"Take all that stuff off of him." Wilson limps to do as told and Chris gently settles Wesker atop the empty bed across from Josh. “Put him on whatever he needs. No sedatives yet,” he orders with a sigh, falling heavily into a rolling chair between the beds and missing Shaun’s look of skepticism to just stare at his friend as Wilson works on Wesker. What he sees is peace.

Chris had expected to find Josh closer to the condition Wilson said the brawl left him in. Closer to whatever state Wesker is in. Dead, even. But he's alive and appears unharmed. Finally out from under the weight of so much stress, Chris takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and lets himself remember Sheva.

"You alright?" Shaun asks after what seems weeks, tugging his pant leg down over his freshly bandaged calf.

Chris merely looks up at the virologist, says nothing, and turns to see Wesker - surprisingly clean but still a wreck, and adorned in white scrubs - laying in the newly inclined bed, a single IV line in his arm and nothing else. He notes the redness already dotting the clothing, the wetness on the floor of the emergency shower, and checks the time on his watch. Sees he has under an hour before his team arrives.

"What were you all working on down here?" Chris eventually asks.

"Antivirals." The simple response giving Chris yet another shock for the evening. "The Colonel initially wanted us to find a cure for Uroboros, but after discovering extreme heat destroyed it, we moved on to find a cure for both his own and the blond's Progenitor virus." Much as Shaun and his small group were turned off by the goings on of the prison, they believed their work of the highest importance, but Chris holds onto his disbelief.

"A _cure_. For _Wesker_. Gotta say, Shaun, that sounds like bullshit."

"W-Well, to destroy his," Wilson amends. "The Colonel despised him, wanted him dead, but…the _things_ he did when he could not have that…"

"Well, he isn't wanting for anything anymore," Chris snaps, knowing the death decorating the yard is no secret, but Shaun looks confused and Chris can't care. He asks what was discovered about Wesker's virus.

It's just as Chris suspected: Wesker's virus is there, active, but not as strong as it had once been. Or if it is, it's simply not been given a chance to show it. "No PG67A/W on site, huh?" Expecting a no, but getting a surprised yes, as though Wilson is shocked Chris knows of it. Sergei had it used to heal Wesker some when he wanted to torture him for prolonged periods. After a shudder of disgust, Chris is outraged. "Then what the hell are you waiting for?" Just when Chris thought they were getting along. "Give it to him!"

"I would!" Shaun emphatically exclaims in return. "Believe me, I would, but that is _not_ the wisest course of action with him off of sedatives, s-sir."

"Just Chris." Much as he wants to believe, it would be premature. While the virologist seems honest and not fond of Sergei, he might just be an excellent liar.

"Of course,” deflating some. “Chris, he's _unstable_. Mentally," Shaun clarifies, wringing his hands nervously. "Y- Do you _know_ …what he’s been through sin-"

"I have a pretty good idea." Too good of one, and he can't think of anything he'd like to hear about less. "But you're gonna go ahead and tell me what you know."

So Shaun does. Every gruesome, soulless and abominable act his time spent working in the infirmary made him audience to. By the time he's finishing, Chris' aching head is rolling side to side in his hands. Emotionally exhausted and sick to his stomach, it's still appeasing to hear that Shaun's caution is not merely for his own benefit. "His mind…it's broken. _He_ is broken. More importantly, he's _terrified_ , Chris." And Chris has to believe him, recalling what he'd seen out in the yard. "Of _every_ body." Granted he didn't spend much time above ground and wasn't allowed to interact with Wesker, Shaun never saw him respond to anyone but Sergei.

Drained and stressed, Chris has to at least try talking to Wesker. They have a long and colorful history; there's a chance he'll be able to get through to him. Besides, what better place to handle the unstable than in a lab meant for testing BOWs? They might not have been doing that here, but every lab Chris raided had been capable of monster containment. "You're telling me there's no testing cell in a _Tricell lab_ for us to safely wake him in?" Finally turning to view the expanse of the lab. The white lights, glass and stainless steel go on as far as he can see.

"That's _not_ what I'm saying at all," the grit out response he gets.

"Listen, I appreciate your concern, but I have a team coming. A team that's going to want to _arrest_ him." Nodding in mock enthusiasm when Shaun's eyes widen with understanding. "He's going to have to wake up eventually, and I'd prefer it be to a quiet, one-on-one type situation. If I can get him to talk, maybe work with me, it's _possible_ I-" _can work out a deal for him_ , he doesn't get to say because Wilson is already sadly shaking his head.

"It won't work."

"I have to **try**. I'm not arguing with you," impatient, already getting up. "Just…lead the way."

"Wait," fidgeting nervously instead of just saying what he clearly wants to say. "I'll agree to show you to a room if you let me restrain him to the bed. It won't hurt him," he adds. That being a concern is so weird to Chris. Honestly, it'd be weirder if it wasn't. "I-I'm not arguing that," he finishes, with a slow-growing confidence Chris can only blankly stare at. There's no time for this shit.

"Fine."

Shaun speaks a million miles a second as he works to lift the side and foot rails of the bed, restraint cuffs already hanging in their respective places for Wesker's ankles, knees, biceps, and wrists. Appearing relieved, the virologist explains why precaution is necessary. He says they won't be able to get Wesker out safely unless he's sedated. That they won't be able to inject a man who's terrified of needles while he's free to attack them, reiterating how the restraints are, at the very least, soft and won't bite into the skin. That concern is still weird.

Together they wheel a newly restrained Wesker out into the lab, holding off on the PG67A/W until they get him to a cell. As they go, Shaun voices his confusion.

"Chris…since he's-" indicating Wesker "-alive, what did you mean before about Colonel Vladimir wanting for nothing anymore?" Shaun asks, frowning again.

"I mean because the dead don't usually want things, Shaun," Chris all but sighs, but the man looks back at him with an even deeper frown, and it's just irritating now. " _What_?"

"That thing you killed out there wasn't the Colonel."

"A _clone_?" This has to be a joke, and an extremely bad one at that. "And just where the hell is the real asshole?" he asks, trying not to shout, but it's a near thing, Shaun slowing to a halt.

"The testing cell," Shaun doesn't answer, instead indicating a clear door to his left, the entire front panel for the room just as transparent. It's as standard as any Chris has ever seen. "I will take you to the Colonel after I administer his serum."

The room beyond is all stainless steel and utterly bare but for the light panel, every inch made of reinforced materials meant to handle "most anything the bio-terrorist world has seen so far," Shaun says. He takes Wesker off the IV and they wheel the sizeable bed inside the brightly lit room, rolling it into the far right corner, facing him toward while placing him as far from the door as possible.

Suddenly recalling Wesker's sensitivity. "There a way to dim the lights in here? His eyes-" Chris starts to say, then changes his mind. "He always kept his eyes covered." Serum administered, they close him in and hurry off to their next destination.

"We should make this quick since I cannot say how long that will take to work." It does look like Wesker's body has done some healing already. The red spots have stopped growing. "It's not like the Colonel ever made a move toward your friend's recovery."

"He's not my friend," Chris says without any inflection.

"Oh." He sounds genuinely taken aback. "I'm…almost sorry to hear that," Shaun admits, his gait speedy and much improved. "He is going to need at least one." Too bad he was such a prick he doesn't have any, Chris merely sniffing out a sound of rancor in lieu of words.

A strange detail occurs to Chris. "How can you work for Tricell and not know who Albert Wesker is?"

"I'm…not sure? I don't know the name, and I've never seen him before."

"But you knew Excella Gionne? You knew her plan? How she came by it?"

"Yes, of course, I-" then a beat later, "No…" disbelief drawing out the denial, Shaun turning to face him. Chris knows he's got it. " _He's_ the man she brought into her company?" Chris nodding with a tight-lipped expression. "The one who wanted to spread Uroboros across the _globe_? The reason I wound up here?!" Kind of a strange thing to say, Chris lofting a brow at it.

"As he'd say: The one and _only_. Be kinda strange for me to be friends with a bio-terrorist."

"Good grief…"

What Chris sees when they reach Sergei reminds him of his first sight of Tyrant. T-002. _'It's magnificent,'_ Wesker had said of it. There was nothing magnificent about what that tank held then, and there's nothing magnificent about what this one holds now.

"Not that I’m complaining, but why is he in stasis?"

"Trial for the latest possible cure," the virologist replies. "Testing can be…extremely painful, so he chooses this."

"Oughta let him feel it," Chris grumbles, Shaun sniffs out a mirthless laugh of seeming agreement. “How long’s he been in here?”

Checking his watch, “Fifty…three hours. He needs another dose in nineteen.”

"How do you know if it worked?"

"Old fashioned way.” Ah. Blood test. It makes him think of Jill.

Minutes pass where Chris eyes the data on the tables, asks questions about the numerous vials, learns that Sergei made the drug he used on Josh only as he needed it, so even if the team wanted to work on a reversal, they wouldn’t know where to start. Lastly, Chris asks if there’s a subject-destruct mechanism on the tank.

“Not one I can be sure will work on him. Look, Chris, your agent won’t wake for a few hours, and he will be fine," he reassures. "But we need to check on the blon- err, on Wesker.”

As they make their way back, Shaun fills the time with warnings. "In the event that there _is_ recognition, there _will not_ be any trust. The moment he sees you while being kept from his go-to reaction-" he's already told Chris about the tight ball Wesker curls into, "-or _any_ action, he will panic. I'm sure you'll see reassurances are like threats to him." Lastly, softly, "You may wish to _physically_ comfort him, but know that he is far too dangerous for that."

"I've known Wesker for years; I never forget he's dangerous." Sure as hell never lost a thought toward comforting him.

"Which means you have never seen him like this." There's no arguing that. "I'm sorry to be a Negative Nancy, but when this fails you will understand why under sedation is not only the safest but most humane method for having him moved anywhere. It will not seem so because, as I told you earlier, he is terrified of needles." A sour taste spreads in Chris' mouth as he thinks back to Wesker cringing away from the one out in the yard, unable to imagine just what Sergei had been injecting him with _besides_ the antivirals. Shaun claims to not know, only says that it sent him running for the lab to escape the piercing screams.

"Great." Chris mutters, phone in-hand.

"Definitely not great, but it is better that he is constrained," Shaun sighs, looking guilty anyway.

"No, 'great', my team's going to be here any minute."

They increase their pace to an easy jog that visibly tests Shaun's limits. What awaits them inside the holding cell opens Chris' eyes - just a touch - to the state of mind he’ll be dealing with. Staring just beyond the panel, Chris sees Wesker is awake, healed, and mindlessly thrashing against every restraint. Silent and utterly freaking out.

"He cannot see us," Shaun assures. "Once that changes, his behavior will exponentially grow worse." Chris hears him, but he can't stop staring at Wesker. Seeing but not believing. "Chris?"

"Yup. Reinforced blackout panels and a possible panic attack. Got it." He feels sick, his hatred for Wesker eroding in the bile. "Can you dim the lights out here too?" Chris would rather his entrance go unnoticed, if possible. He's realizing now that nothing behind the door is anything he came prepared to deal with.

"You are sure he's not a friend?" Wilson mistaking the purpose of it. Really, Chris just isn't ready.

Keycard suspended at the reader, Shaun funnily enough asks if he's ready, and what else can he do as he watches the desperate struggle he basically asked for on the other side except nod.

Darkening the light helps, especially with how downright fixated on fighting the restraints Wesker is. He doesn’t notice Chris enter, just keeps jerking and twisting his limbs against the padded, clanking metal. Panicked sounds are small and quiet, shallow breaths far louder.

For minutes, Chris stares in shock by the door as Wesker struggles in fear. Eventually Wesker begins to tire - repeatedly falling slack, chest heaving, for short moments before making half-hearted attempts until even that stops, and okay, yeah, Chris is glad for the harmless restraints now, wondering just how long Wesker's been at this. Chris sees the mess of blond hair tilt forward, Wesker regarding his cuffs to then give one final try against them all before falling limp altogether, panting.

Then he thinks he hears Wesker say something. Say _ing_ something! Straining his ears becomes unnecessary when he recognizes the silent crying for what it is, sobs so hushed Chris' chest constricts at the lack of sound. _What the hell did they-?_ Really, he already knows enough, the unexpected pang in his chest giving him a start.

 _Please respond to me, please respond, please respond._ He's sure he's about to get the worst response ever, the one Shaun warned him of, but there's no more time for dawdling. What he won't do is take advantage of Wesker’s forcibly held state. No touching, or even approaching just yet.

“Hey…” a low, highly unsure sound. Wesker immediately startles with a frightened one of his own, head snapping up to fix terrified and teary, low glowing orange on him; body hunching in on itself as much as it can. As though he's been caught committing some horrible injustice. A thought for another time. "I'm not here to hurt you." Firm but quiet, Chris not wanting to stress him more than he already has, but Wesker's head starts shaking before quickly turning away again so he can revert to struggling, maybe no longer crying but definitely panicking.

Chris stays put, waits for silent pauses and speaks in hushed tones. Repeating things like "you’re safe" and "it's okay.” He sees that blond head shake every now and again after Chris speaks. In denial? Whatever the meaning, Chris decides to keep silent and wait for another calm… _semi_ -calm break.

Only, when it comes this time, Wesker is trembling so fiercely the entire bed rattles. "It's okay," he tries to soothe, and sees the signs of Wesker wanting nothing more than to curl up. "You're safe, Wesker." The broken sound of a response isn't as quiet, isn't even a word. “Can you hear me?” And though the shaking, hunched-in set of those broad shoulders and everything around them projects nothing but terror, Chris is sure he sees a tiny nod. It’s more than he’d expected to get. _Please don’t let this be a dream_ , he thinks, because he’s certainly been tired enough to have passed out next to Josh and now be dreaming the impossible. Maybe he _should_ be wishing all this shit was a horrible nightmare.

“Do you know who I am?” Nothing. _Shit._ He refuses to believe he was imagining things before. “It’s Chris. Redfield." The full body tension that grips Wesker is a visible thing, as is the instant fixation of brighter oranges to somewhere around Chris’ waist. Tells that make the answer to his next quiet question abundantly clear. “You know me, right?” A shaky nod. Wesker’s exhausted body tensed so hard it releases it in an equally visible, spreading shudder. Like he hadn’t actually wanted to relax. He certainly doesn’t look relieved. “You know I won’t hurt you like these people have…”

But that doesn’t appear to be the case at all, Wesker trying to curl up again, his gaze in his lap, gasping breaths signaling the resumption of silent tears. Chris doesn't know what to say or if he should say more because it seems it's just as Shaun says. Wesker has a blind fear of everyone. "Wesker, I promise I'm not gonna hurt you." But he doesn’t respond in any way but to keep crying and shaking his head.

======================

_'Any kindness a needy little slut like you clings to will always be used against you…Just how you deserve…'_

How he deserves and what he knows he'll be getting soon. Chris Redfield hates him, and for good reason. Albert has a long, drawn out history of reasons with the man offering him false comforts. Once upon a time, it'd been Albert who'd toyed with Chris. Over and over. It's his turn to take what Chris will do to him. Over and over. It’s what he deserves. _It’s what I deserve._

Restrained, he can’t curl up the way he needs to, and he simultaneously wishes Chris would just get started and that he would leave him alone. Instead, Chris continues to assure him of things he absolutely cannot believe and wants to be true. Shaking his head, he wishes he could stop crying, but every falsehood itches to rend him apart with an achingly familiar honesty. _Wanting_ to believe someone cares hurts in a way violence can’t manage. Albert hasn’t wanted since Officer Something or Other’s words rang with truth.

How stupid he is to yet want. Stupid and weak and deserving of all the pain it gets him. His duty is to perform; not want. He knows that. _You_ know _this, you insignificant nothing!_ His calming technique. That self-deprecation he hasn’t had a sliver of time to employ in so long. All it does is hurt now. All anything has is the power to hurt him. He wishes he could stop crying, needs to curl up and hide from everything. Needs to perform first. Needs to stop listening to lies. Needs to get out of these _clothes_ and this _bed_ , but _can't_!

 _'All your wretched life you have performed. You will perform now.'_ Sergei's are the only words he needs to listen to. They're the only ones that matter anymore.

Where he is doesn’t matter. These unwanted provisions will be used against him. To toy with him. His being forced into clothes and locked in a bed will get him hurt until breathing alone becomes an agonizing burden. Chris always was determined the world be just. If even a do-gooder like him sees Albert for the worthless whore that he is…

He wishes he could protect himself, wants to curl up and at least pretend he's safely hidden. Wishes he could just die like a normal human being, to not be the worthless object he let himself become, and now even Chris Redfield gets to see it. Gets to treat him the way he deserves to be, make him pay for all he’s done to him.

Albert hopes Chris will just fuck him. Fuck him a few times, maybe use his mouth without breaking anything, then choke and beat him until he can’t stay awake. He knows he'll perform better, make him less angry, if he could just curl up.

Lost in imaginings of most horrible treatments far more likely to come his way, the first touch finally comes. Chris finally takes advantage. He tries to but can't keep the frightened cry in, eyes springing open to stare terrified desperation at the thick forearm of the hand on his shoulder. _Please, pl-_

“Sorry for touching you, but my team is here.” Redfield’s confusing and twisted tenderness. It’s to be a team effort. _No… No…_ The hope to only be fucked and beaten dwindles away now he knows it’s a group. They must be ready to use him now, to tear off these layers of pseudo comfort and tear _him_ apart until all he knows is the agony he now lives to endure.

Someone else slowly inches into view past the agent touching him that he refuses to look at. Albert does fix his panic onto the newcomer's face, sees wide brown eyes searching his own in…upset? Chris’ team, he remembers, gaze quickly dropping. Barely breathing, he stares at the man's hands.

“I know you don’t like needles,” Chris’ unexpected though quiet and meaningless words startling him into almost looking at him, “but he’s only going to sedate you.”

The slighter man moves and despite the low light, all Albert sees is the glint of the needle, and just like that he’s Sergei. Threatening him, making everything impossible, wearing that terrifying smile. _No, no, no, no, no, no-_

With a string of broken denials Albert falls apart. The needle comes closer. He slams hard into the bed he shouldn't even _be_ in, leans toward the wall, and pushes against the upper restraints while pulling against the lower with a loud, collective clank. Hands splayed wide open as he does, knees making to draw inward.

He knew Chris would hurt him, knew it would be bad and there’d be a team, but he hadn’t expected Sergei to be part of it. He'd never known Chris could be so cruel. It seems Albert brings it out in everybody, but he can't do this again, not with the needle. He _can't_.

It's been a long time since he's deliberately disobeyed, but he begs now.

“Please _don’t_ ,” pleading through a running face for mercy he won't receive. “Please…don't, please…I’ll be-have…” Begging's a proven mistake he normally doesn't make, but with the needle it’s too much for too long, and he's only just been punished with it for something he can't even remembering doing, and he hasn’t disobeyed; he hasn’t _done_ anything, he _hasn't_. He'd get out of these clothes and the bed if he could, but it seems this is how he's wanted. “I-I’ll…obey… _anything_ ,” he chokes out past sharp and ragged gasps and sobs he wishes would stop. Sergei prefers his silence. “Sorry…m’sorry, please…please don’t…do that. _Please_ , I'm sorry.”

And he knows he isn't worthy of kindness, but Chris was always so good and so stubborn to stay that way, and Albert running on terror and desperation with Spencer in his ear, urging him to _'go ahead and ask for it'_ in that sickeningly knowing voice that makes him ashamed of himself, of the fact that he _needs_ ; makes him want to give up and accept. But not this time, not with the way Chris sounds and looks.

"Please, Chris," he sobs, finally looking up at the blurred image of him through terribly swimming vision. " _Please_ don't…let him,” as if anyone can stop Sergei’s approach. Albert shaking his head, canting now in a shameful effort to hide behind Chris. “ _Please_ ,” eyes squeezing shut in devastated expectation, but finally, for the first time in his adult life, forcing out the plea for what he’s needed for as long as he can remember, the thing he'd learned well enough to _stop_ asking for when he was a child, “ _h-help me_ ," the low, pleading wail tapering off into sobs. It's the last bit of sense he makes before the tears overwhelm. The rejection and mockery this time will surely break him anew.

======================

"Okay, okay, he's gone," Chris has been imploring Wesker to hear him. Shaun had indulged Chris and left after Wesker begged him specifically. It was obvious neither one of them expected that, but whatever Wesker's seeing - probably that bastard Sergei - doesn't seem to have gone anywhere. If anything, his vision torments him more by the second, and Chris is back to not knowing what the hell to _do_. "God, Wesker…I _am_ trying to help you," he whispers more to himself than anything, staring helplessly and very uncomfortably as his enemy cries and seems to be trying to hide behind him.

 _'You may wish to physically comfort him.'_ Shaun knew, had probably felt that way for a long time himself. Chris looks to where Wesker's hands still push against the cuffs, sees the opened palms. For no conscious reason, he gingerly grasps the nearest one. It quickly pulls away, and he lets it slip free to strain in another direction. Chris does it again, lets it dodge him again. He tries again and again, and eventually Wesker's crying dies down, but the subsiding noise barely registers with his gentle attentions set on that hand.

When Chris looks up again, he sees Wesker searching, looking everywhere he can except at Chris. Though less violently, his hand still flinches from Chris' touch but he isn't paying it very much mind otherwise. The intense worry and wild confusion plain as day on his face are for the vision that seems to have at last retreated. "Hey." His voice gets Wesker's brighter gaze to flick in his direction, but it's for a split second and then he keeps searching, going as far as stretching to check behind Chris as well. "There's nobody else here," Chris tells him, but miserable distrust joins the fear already fixed on his chest.

"Wh-Where?" the hesitant word quiet and rough before he flinches inwardly without Chris doing or saying anything.

"You're still in-" stopping when Wesker shakes his head and cringes away.

"S-Sergei?" he hoarsely and unevenly clarifies with another hard flinch, confirming Chris' educated guess. Trembling in the bed, his low glowing cat eyes roam the room again, and he recoils violently hard into the bed with a gasp when his strikingly lost gaze finds Chris, as though he's only just discovered him there. Chris swiftly steps back to give him space, and forces himself to look away from that uncharacteristic expression to silently express a moment of rage at the darkened front panel, letting it all sink in.

The extreme terror, the way he tries to cover himself… Wesker's afraid of everyone because everyone he's seen in this shit-hole almost certainly has brutalized and raped him. Relentlessly and daily. For at _least_ a fucking _month_ , and now it's all the hell he expects, and, _God, that sick, twisted-_ He takes a deep, calming breath.

"He isn't here," Chris finally gets out. Technically, the scumbag _isn't_ ; not in the room at least. But he may as well have said Sergei was - right there, needle in hand - with the way Wesker's fear elevates straight into a weeping panic. "Wesker…please, you asked for my help-" But that only makes things worse, and it sounds like he's apologizing again, if his utterances are words at all, and god, none of this is anything Chris could ever want; not on his worst day.

Mind racing to make sense of it, Chris concludes that he should've seen this coming. Why the hell should Wesker trust him or anybody after what he's been through? _But why did he ask for my help?_ He chalks it up to a mix of instinct, hysteria and desperation. To Wesker not quite being aware of what he was doing but knowing he needed help.

The issue still stands that his team will be done with the eleven up top, and he will have to get this hyperventilating man out of here and safely into a BSAA vehicle, and soon. With rising dread, he dejectedly waves Shaun back in and holds Wesker's arm steady, staring at the reflection of the scene in the dark panel until the heart-rending sobbing stops, until the rapid, ragged breaths even out and the powerful tension of the arm falls limp. Until he smells the urine. “Dammit…" At least Wesker hadn't said his name again.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, Chris and a sedated Wesker arrive at the BSAA facility Jill has yet to leave, Wesker's last pleading words still ringing in Chris' head.

Worn thin as he'd been and newly harboring a clinging feeling of illness, he'd accomplished plenty in the seventy-some odd hours' time. Never leaving Wesker’s side for too long after the BSAA doctor very briefly woke him for the purpose of noting his mental state. Chris carried guilt over the rushed manner he'd dealt with Wesker in at the prison. Took it upon himself to make sure no one repeated his error, mistakenly or otherwise. Watching him be woken up again worsened the sick feeling in his gut, but he pushed it down and made his phone calls, all the while _'help me'_ interrupting his focus.

Explaining everything to a worried and then furious and then exceptionally subdued Jill came first. Getting BSAA director Clive O'Brian to sign off on Wesker's admittance onto a lab floor as strictly nonhostile came next.

It wasn’t exactly uncomplicated per se, but really, he wasn't sure because never had he so defensively and incessantly thrown his weight around. After a handful of phone calls where Chris didn’t hesitate to bring up his years of dedicated work for the company he _‘co-goddamn-founded’_ , it proved worth it. Jill would have been proud. All he felt was drained.

As per Chris’ efforts, Wesker isn't simply going to be thrown into a dark cell alongside Sergei. Treated like a feral animal that everyone's either too spooked by or unconcerned with (or both) to do more for. Agreements were made, and Chris has a hefty end to uphold. Wesker became his responsibility; it's up to Chris to see him well enough to be placed _somewhere_ within the company. In aid, the lab will clear out a wing holding a sizeable BOW resistant cell fashioned into a standard live-in room. Once there, Wesker is to stay inside it at all times. Any staff help Chris might require, he'll receive only if he gets Wesker sedated, fully restrained or both. In the case of a serious attack or successful escape, the deal will be off. Like Sergei, Wesker will become their prisoner. Chris' primary goal is to get Wesker into therapy, but there's no telling how long that will take.

Chris visited multiple times with Josh (who remembered nothing after driving off with the convoy). He hadn't had to lay the bad news that ended that trip on Josh himself, and together they mourned and shared memories of their mutual friend.

Shaun and the additional three researchers were found to have been hired by Sergei personally; not Tricell. The only work they lent their genius to was toward developing antivirals for a global contamination. Though taken aback that Shaun had neglected to mention that he didn't actually work for the company, Shaun had sound reasoning. Chris had enough information to process and wasn't ready to trust much of anything Shaun revealed at the time, and there was no believing saying he "only worked for Sergei" would sound anything less than awful. Chris only hoped he'd see the young man again. Shaun and the other three had the potential to do great work in the fight against bio-terrorism. Sergei’s newly virus-free blood was running proof of that, so long as the treatment stuck.

Begrudgingly, Chris also confronted the asshole himself. Sergei Vladimir, who would finish out the remainder of his life in a solitary basement BSAA cell, had been asking for him. After having his assumptions confirmed for how Wesker and Josh ended up in the prison, Chris is curious over why the Colonel would seek a cure. Sergei explained he had no use for viruses after Wesker’s betrayal ruined his plans for his homeland, but that since bio enhancements would always hold Wesker’s interest, Sergei would see to the destruction of them. Discovering Wesker had plans in Tricell, he quietly found himself a spot within the company as well and waited.

When Chris didn't hold back in telling Sergei just what he thought of him, the Colonel had taken it all in stride. "What was so great about the man he was before, ah?" with a look saying he knew he had Chris there. Wesker sought to end human existence, to corrupt anything left of it, and Sergei appeared delighted as curious in asking Chris how he'd planned to stop him. "Put him in a cage he would have found his way out of?" a knowing gleam in his eyes. "And now you know he cannot be killed," supplied with a small, condescending chuckle. "You have no real solution for the threat he poses. So tell me: what would you have done to protect our species?" Not lower himself into a monster, for starters, but Sergei was unfazed by staring into the abyss and having it look back.

A picture of mild boredom, Sergei refused to divulge what he'd done to Josh's memory and apparently had no reason for hanging onto the agent for so long. "I was busy," was all he said, sounding finished with their conversation, but then he had one last sneered smirk for Chris. The reason he'd wanted to meet with him. "Take the computer your company confiscated from my office." One that had already been searched, found containing nothing but old security footage, the oldest of which showed what a madhouse the prison had already been.

Barbaric inmates took their revolting, and oftentimes fatal, violence ruthlessly out on one another. Obviously until Wesker. All Chris had seen of his time there was that last day, and those recorded horrors elevated the sick feeling he'd been harboring to something a half-step away from unbearable. No one except Wesker had suffered their disgusting abuses on it, and Chris tasted bile more often than not. Had felt a shocking satisfaction over seeing Wesker kill two men, but it was infected with concern over the disconnected manner in which the fatal blows were delivered.

"He will not want you to find what is on it," Sergei’s ominous reasoning when asked why. Chris required no specification on who he meant, but he did ask where this supposed information was, and the Russian offered nothing but a smirk and the advice to look harder. With the exception of what Chris had forced himself to watch, the hard drive held nothing in regards to Wesker. No files encrypted or hidden. It made no sense, and the computer made the flight anyway.

For now, Chris just wants to get Wesker situated inside this building, hug Jill for an hour, tie up loose ends, and then sleep _in a bed_ for as long as he can before Wesker comes off the sedative. So very ready to get into the same place Jill's been so very ready to get out of.

======================

Wheeling Wesker past two armed guards already stationed at the wing's entrance, Chris brings him to a stop outside the BOW cell at the far back wall. Its setup is simple, reminiscent of but larger than the one back at the prison lab, and with a much higher ceiling. A plainly outfitted mattress lays at the center of the back wall, and there’s an attached, newly curtained off - at Chris’ request - washroom. Everything down to the mirror is constructed of reinforced, shatterproof materials. Modern laboratory modesty. Built in the wake of criminals such as, but not limited to, Albert Wesker. After pushing the mattress into the far right corner, to the direct left of the washroom, Chris places Wesker atop it, and briskly investigates the rest of the severely white, spacious as barren wing.

Outside the door, he sets up Sergei's computer on the semi-circular console area. Along both side walls are doors to rooms for staff use. Searching them, he strikes luck. Silently praising whoever furnished the wing, he pulls one of the recliners - _close enough to a bed_ \- out and in front of the darkened glass of Wesker’s room. After dimming the cage's and the main space’s lights, he goes off in search of that hug before he endeavors to tie up remaining ends.

Finally returning, Chris drops into the recliner and lets the vision of a sleeping Wesker put him to sleep. Neither one of them gets a say in how rudely they're woken.

The first several days are almost cyclical in sameness. Utterly depressing in bleakness. Chris attempts to get Wesker acquainted with his presence and voice to endlessly hope-free results.

Literally tearing off his clothes, Wesker takes up the left corner of the room, curls up and never moves. Conscious, he trembles non-stop and nothing more. Unconscious, his tight huddle loosens, and his violent shudder tamps down to intermittent things. Even nightmares aren't enough to pry him open, but his hands do regularly find their way between his legs while either anguished sobs or piercing screams resound and overlap. It takes anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour of whichever it is before he either curls up tight again or falls asleep. He doesn't drink, he doesn't eat, he doesn't move to look at Chris or his surroundings. Chris only knows he's aware of him because when he gets too close, plaintive whimpers enter those panicked breaths.

The one thing he refuses to be stupid enough to risk is touching him. That BSAA deal is everything.

But after a week of absolute nothing, Chris can't just let him waste away any longer. Maybe Wesker heals on his own, but leaving him to marinate in urine just isn't right.

Filled with a new appreciation for tranquilizer guns, Chris sedates Wesker that way, hears him suck in a sharp breath and start to sob in what sounds like defeat. Trying to block it out by repeatedly cursing under his breath, he plucks him up and deposits him back onto the gurney where the doctor checks him, wipes him down and sets him up with an IV, feeding tube and ostomy bag. Four days of that, and Wesker's appearance is much improved, his body mass normal. Dreading going back to the previous routine, Chris knows Wesker’s mind won't heal like this either. Jill squeezes his arm in encouragement, adamantly tells him he's _'got this'_. That no one else is better for the job, cutting away half of his doubt. At least a third of it.

Jill has been nothing but openly supportive of his endeavors, but she spends as little time around Wesker as possible. Seeing him for the first time had thrown her for a mental whirl, but left her support fortified. It unnerved her, seeing her own torturer that way, and it pained Chris to hear her quietly admit out of nowhere that she thought Wesker’s suffering was worse. In the three years she spent under his control, none of it came close to leaving her the way a couple of _months_ in Sergei’s prison left him. At the sound of her voice Wesker's terror became more audible and he curled up tighter and trembled more fiercely, and she walked out more subdued than she'd entered. Mind obviously reeling, she'd said nothing.

Being in the wing at all for one of his nightmare ridden awakenings had been _'way too fucked up'_ , but she hadn't left. Only asked Chris how he was handling it all. But Jill kept visiting, and spent her time with Chris or persisting in exploring Sergei's computer with her back to the cell slash room and earplugs in place. After it looked like she'd ruined it, having removed a side panel, she'd had enough. "Even if there _is_ something to notice here, I am _not_ gonna be the one to do it," she'd eventually confessed. " _But_ I know a guy in tech." Unfortunately he's on vacation, but Jill gave him a call to set things up anyway.

Closely familiar with Chris' determination, she never once questioned his ability, and he hadn’t given her the chance to begin questioning his promises. Massively delayed as it was, Chris made good on his months old promise to bail her out, then did her one better by getting the doctors to sign off on a clean bill of health for her. The BSAA reinstated Jill Valentine, and she was ready and able to get back to work while Chris stayed with his charge, their positions swapped.

Jill opted to crash at Chris’ pad for the time being. Aware of how all of Chris’ time was spent in the hospital, ”Anything your humongous heart desires from the outside, I’m your gal,” she promised. “Y’know… you _can_ trust _one_ or two of the docs here to keep an eye on him once in a while when he’s asleep. Get some _more_ sun, hang out with your partner. Nothin’ special.” He would, he’d promised. When Wesker stopped waking up screaming so wildly, he would.

Yet even when Wesker is sedated, he can't bring himself to leave his side, and Jill doesn't ask. Just brings food and talks about anything of interest. It's good. Her every visit does him good, gives him an escape he isn't consciously searching for.

Watching Wesker come out of sedation is a whole new level of harrowing. Though she has work in a couple hours, Jill is there for emotional support. Unfortunately neither one of them does much of anything in the face of the tragic scene that unfolds.

~~~

_Albert doesn't know what he's done wrong. Sergei's angry voice wakes him, and he struggles for clarity past so much pain, feeling something like adrenaline coursing through his veins before his arm is yanked and he hits the floor hard._

_"_ Wake up _, Wesker." Backhands assault his face until he's fully awake, on his knees, eyes to the floor. He knows better than to curl up when it's Sergei, can't do anything about the violent shudders. "Tell me, Wesker. Since when do rats sleep in beds?"_

_"…"_

_He hadn't. He never. He_ wouldn't _… Panicking, a quick look around reveals the bloodied cot beside him. Fretfully connecting the dots, he knows he'd been pulled from it. Tries to recall the how, and finds it. Whoever had been raping him last had put him there. Had let him pass out on it. "Hmm?" There's no way to answer except to speak. If he has to speak, he'd like to explain, but the truth is an excuse. Everything is an excuse, and Sergei_ hates _those._

_"N-Never." Already starting to cry._

_"Stop crying. You do not have reason yet, rat." He hears movement, Sergei's retreating steps; risks a terrified glance to see what else he's doing. Sees the vial, and finally can't help it. Sobbing harder, he drops down onto his hands as well and grovels, begging._

_"I'm sorry. Sergei, please, m'so sorry," crawling miserably toward his abuser. "I…didn't m-mean-“ but that doesn’t matter, ”I won’t- again. I'm sorry, please, Sergei, please, please, I'm sorry, please," not even making sense to his own ears anymore, cried and sobbed words mostly congealing together wetly between great gasps, but he can't stop. He doesn't stop._

_A gloved hand roughly finds his chin, jerking it up so the other can backhand him hard, knocking him back a few feet. Sergei calls him worthless and pathetic, but he just keeps begging and crawling and weeping. And agreeing now. “Please, I-I know…I am. I’m sorry…please, sorry, sorry..”_

_He loses his tongue first, his mobility next. Legs spread wide, the rest is a terribly long blur of extraordinary agony._

_"You will not_ touch _another bed, will you?"_

~~~

Somewhere in the midst of so much screaming, glowing eyes snap open and Wesker's terrified eyes find the mattress he's on while his hands come off it as though burned. Audibly gasping his lungs to their fill, he forcefully scrambles back into the corner, feet continuing to kick frantically until the mattress slides out and across the floor, nearly knocking Chris' and Jill's legs out from under them, but successfully out of their teary stupors. Wesker belatedly notices the clothes he's wearing. Horrified, he tears the tough material from his skin before curling up in the corner, all of him trembling and convulsing with the too quiet force of his tears. Jill politely averts her gawking eyes, then limply turns to leave the room, pulling Chris along and the door to.

"This isn't working." Chris’ frustration more helpless than ever. Sighing heavily, Jill merely raises her brows in silent acquiescence. Though she's made it her purpose where Wesker's concerned, there's no feasible way to cast a positive light over any of what they've seen. Worse is that Chris knows Wesker will just fall back into the same regimen if something doesn't change. "I can't just sit around and let him waste away for another week."

“Then don’t wait another week. But give him a little time before you push. Maybe not living strictly off that virus will trigger a change.” It’s reaching, and they both know it, but Chris truly doesn’t want to push Wesker in any way if it isn’t necessary.

Nothing changes. Three days is all takes before Wesker is curled up in a puddle of urine again, and Chris automatically knows he's not going to move. Come day four, things have to change.

"You're right," Jill sighs. "This isn’t doing him any good. He can't see or accept that he's out of hell yet.” And that gets the rusty cogs in Chris’ head turning. “Jesus, Chris, he _lived_ that - what we saw the other day."

"Everyday,” he morosely confirms, a rather simple plan brewing in his mind.

“How sick do you have to be to hurt someone like that?” _Very_ , he doesn't need to say. “I mean, I thought I hated him. I _know_ I did. The way I know I wanted to hurt him. So badly and with good reason, but…“ eying Chris with a strained mix of utter incomprehension and disgust on her face. “ _This_? No. Not a chance. _No one_ deserves this.”

“Jill.” Seeing how upset she is, Chris pulls her in for a hug. "They were monsters," lets her rub the angry mist from her eyes into his shirt. "Not the kind we _usually_ deal with," her rough sound of agreement muffled, "but monsters just the same." Worse, actually, if he thinks on it. "And _we_ hated Wesker," he sighs over the top of her head. "Our hate was justified, but the person he was, the person it was for? Pretty sure he died in Africa.”

“I can’t help wishing I'd stayed away because now I can't stop thinking about him.” That makes two of them. “Can't stop hearing him. They broke him and just kept- Chris, triggers can be worked on, but he’ll always be a nap or a fucking _thought_ away from any or all of that _shit_. He expects- Looked at us like we're gonna-”

"I know," he says. "I know he does." Separating from him, she sniffs in a hard, self-collecting breath and lets it go; looks past the window at Wesker, all upset sympathy. Crosses her arms and shakes her head with it.

"I'm glad they're dead too," she murmurs. "Dis _gus_ ting."

“Y'know, what you said about him not seeing he's out of hell gives me an idea.” Staring determinedly at the subject of their concern now too. “Since he's been here, he really hasn't seen anything. He’s _heard_ us, but what he's doing now is all he ever does." Frustrating as it is, those emotions are never aimed at Wesker. All his anger and hatred and upset is for Sergei now. "God I hate him, Jill." They've been through this countless times. "I wish they'd have just put him down. I wish _I_ had."

"I hope he breaks out and gives us the opportunity." That faraway look won't leave her eyes. But she only has so much time to spare, and Chris can use a helping hand.

The plan ends with Wesker sedated, cleaned, dressed, and restrained to the lab bed. As expected, he comes to terrified that he's held down, a hunted expression taking over upon seeing them. Chris approaches slowly, appearing non-threatening as he can.

"Hey," he murmurs while Wesker favors straining toward the wall. "It's Chris. I'm not gonna hurt you." It goes about as well as it did the first time, but Chris has all the time in the world now. No rushing, no force outside of the restraints, no needles. Reaching Wesker's side, he brings his hands up to grasp the rail because he's noted how that fearful focus tends to settle on hands.

Crying in extreme distress as he is, he doesn't disappoint, flinching hard at Chris' proximity, sheer terror rooted to the space between them. "You're safe, Wesker. You're not in that prison anymore. I'm not gonna hurt you." But he loses a sob and carries on pulling away. Jill, who'd left a moment ago, slides the recliner in, and her return can't be any less welcome if the small sound of pure fright that comes out of him is anything to go by.

"Here we _go_ ," she softly grits out, one last push to get it close enough to Chris. "Hey Wesker," she coos, wincing in sympathy when he jerks harder for the wall, shaking his head, terrified cat's eyes darting from her hands to Chris' and back again, breaths too shallow and quick. The majority of his focus on her, he's clearly panicking. "Whoa," Jill drawls with some caution, "no, no, no," but Chris has never heard her speak so gently. "It's okay, it's okay. You don't have to be afraid. You're safe now. Chris just wants to help you. You know how he is. He didn't rescue you from that fucking piece of Russian pig shit to hurt you," so softly it would be funny most anywhere else.

Apparently not thinking too hard beyond a serious need to give comfort, she reaches out, places a soothing hand to Wesker's calf, and there's the instant attempt to curl in on himself.

"No…" It escapes the constriction of Wesker's throat in a miserably resigned sound, a pair of great gasps to herald earnest, too quiet weeping.

Chris and Jill fix wide stares on one another. " _Jill_!" Chris' shocked whisper harsh and coming quicker than she can simultaneously jolt and snatch her hand away, though both still hover over the area of her mistake. Needing to ease the unintended pain she caused in some unknown way.

"Shit!" Her own whisper a tad louder. "Shit, Wesker, I'm _so_ sorry. I shouldn't ha-" She mouths an apology to Chris, but he waves it away and she flees the room, off to work. Honest mistakes happen, and if anything, maybe this can be the start to Wesker learning that touch won't lead to pain anymore. Definitely another reach, but Chris does believe that now is the actual beginning to Wesker's road to recovery. The previous week, he's quite certain, was a total waste.

Chris repositions the recliner to beside Wesker's bed and plops down into it. Tired eyes on the nearest straining hand, he remembers what he'd once done and does it again. In time, Wesker calms some and soon his frightened, red-rimmed, low glowing orbs stare too at where Chris persists in his delicate grounding effort.

Maybe he grows too tired or resigned, or maybe it's born of curiosity, but eventually Wesker stops pulling away. Though stiffly and reluctantly done, he'd leant back in the reclined bed a while ago, shivering there beside Chris' slack form.

Venturing a glance, Chris notes that tears are no longer blinked from Wesker's nervous, illuminated stare. Some wandering part of his mind, desperate for an escape from the misery, settling on 'cool' for how they shine in the dim light of the room. _Almost pretty_ , he muses, lofting an unimpressed brow at himself, though still amused by his sleep-deprived thoughts. Wanting to keep this peaceful moment, he carefully links their fingers together properly, and squeezes once in reassurance. Wesker's hand continues to shake with the rest of him, and Chris' thumb naturally attempts to soothe the tension away as he dozes off.

He misses Wesker's staring curious frown, doesn't notice when he braves a questioning squeeze of his own and flinches inwardly a little. How he incrementally relaxes to more than he has in months, freshly stinging eyes darting over Chris helplessly, struggling to understand what it all means.

  


It's Chris who wakes up panting this time, surfacing from a nightmare and shooting up in the recliner. The gasp and clanking to his right startle him anew until he looks to see Wesker staring open fear into the space between them, tense as a bow string and waiting to be snapped, leaning hard for the wall. _Oh._ "Shit…" Falling back onto the recliner, Chris measures his breaths and hears Wesker fail to do the same. "Sorry." Apologizing to the very man who'd just ruined his sleep, deliberately not looking his way. "Didn't mean to scare you." _Guess we scared each other._

Schooling his expression into something less frazzled, he turns back. "Wouldn't happen to know how long I was out, would you?" Wincing at his own flippancy, he's fairly stunned when Wesker actually shakes his head. Having just battled down an old upset, excitement isn't hard to ward off. Nightmares can leave Chris in a bit of a funk for a few, but the lines around his eyes soften a bit, brows lofting for a moment of welcome shock before he checks his watch and frowns. _Not even an hour._

"You get any sleep?" Another nervous shake. He can't blame him. Letting out a heavy sigh, his expression grows apologetic. "Look, I'm sorry about all this," gesturing at Wesker's setup with an uninspired wave of a hand. "I know you're afraid, that you think I want to hurt you. I know our history well as you do. Hell, so does Jill, but we're not here to hurt you. Things change, Wesker. I know you were… _badly_ hurt…" _To put it lightly._ "I know those fucking bastards raped you," because diluting the facts by putting things _lightly_ isn't going to help, "but you know us. You know we're not like that. We just want to help you. Okay?" Leaning down to try and meet the wide, flicking stare that won’t look back. "I'm going to help you." Still his gaze isn't met. "Not only because you asked, but because it's what's right. Just- You're not alone. Not anymore."

He thinks and then hopes that he got through to him. No real way to be sure, but since there was no panic attack or tears, it's possible. Hope is pretty much all he has in this. An undying hope that he'll help his own worst enemy become a functioning - hopefully not murderous - person again. By restraining him, of all the ridiculous ways.

Letting Wesker know he was going for a coffee run, he'd asked if he wanted any and got nothing. It wasn’t enough to keep him from returning with two cups.

"I think you always preferred a, uh, little strong coffee in your sweet cream? No one could ever believe how sweet you liked your coffee. Anyway, uhh… " noticing a problem, Wesker looking nervously down at it as well. "Hmm.” Really, there’s just the one solution, and it isn’t going to be Chris pouring hot coffee into Wesker’s mouth. “I uncuff your wrist, you gonna try to…I dunno, kill me?"

Chris thinks Wesker could probably have killed him with a finger all throughout their years of fighting, but he's more concerned this Wesker is going to give breaking free another try than actually attack him. Shivering and leaning away, Wesker briskly shakes his head in answer.

 _Ho boy, here goes nothing._ Quietly taking in a steadying breath, all he says as he lets it out is, "Sounds good." A poor joke to give himself strength. Excellent.

By early afternoon, Chris is able to let him out of the bed without _much_ risk of him fleeing into a corner and curling up to shut the world out. As unreceptive to touch as he is, the idea of Wesker instigating it to assault him seems ludicrous. Anyway, he'd needed the bathroom. Seeing the rough time he has reaching it, Chris knows a helping hand will only make things worse and remembers him using the AK as a crutch. While the constant trembling can't help, Wesker's body is healed now, and Chris wonders how little walking he’s done in the past few months. Thinks it might be close to none as he mentally curses Sergei for the millionth time.

Being that Wesker's afraid to talk, Chris had spent the better part of five hours sticking to yes or no questions. Among the sparse nods and shakes, he got mostly nervous shrugs in response. Asking if he didn't like the clothes, or if he preferred anything versus coffee, if he wanted to say or needed anything, if he cared whether or not Chris took his calls in the room, Chris received shrugs. Some things he learned just by observing. Like how he's too scared to look him in the eye, too afraid to do more than accept the cup of coffee, never actually drinking any. Unwilling to believe it when Chris told him he was safe, wouldn't be hurt, and not with Sergei anymore.

Assurances in particular worsened his constant shaking, and Chris apologized, but it didn't help. Like Shaun said, they're construed as threats, and it didn't take much consideration to figure out why. Unfortunately, promising that he wasn't lying didn't help.

Chris watched him fight exhaustion, Wesker adamantly refusing to close his eyes just because he was there. Though silently thrilled he wasn't crying anymore, Chris had no trust from him whatsoever. In Wesker's mind, Chris' sole purpose was to hurt him, and there of course wasn't some express route to changing that false perception. He could tell Wesker believed it more than anything. More than he believed Chris. More than he believed things he once knew to be true. More than he believed his own body noisily signaling its need for sustenance, strictly an insistent shake of the head when Chris asked if he was hungry.

But when Chris questioned if _he_ could trust _him_ to not rush off into a corner and never come out if he let him free, he got emphatic nods in immediate response. Then he felt bad again for having to resort to force to get any healthy interaction out of him. Though the feeling wasn't likely reciprocated, Chris wanted to trust him. At least enough so that he didn't have to worry about him seeking comfort in starving himself in a puddle of urine, in some twisted harmony with his own terror and suffering.

Several minutes of silence later, Wesker cautiously moves the curtain out of the way. Stops after padding just inside the room. "You figure everything out in there?" For a split second, he pictures the look of unadulterated disdain Wesker would've given that question not long ago. All he gets now is a nervous nod. "You can shower if-" Wesker's head snaps up, and Chris can almost feel his alarm. "If you want," he slowly says. " _Only_ if you want to." It helps as much as an assurance, and the last thing Chris wants is for Wesker to do what everything in the set of his body, the erratic pace of his breathing and darting of his eyes, is suggesting. "I can leave. Wesker, I'm gonna go." The name getting his terrified attention. "I'll give you some space and clean clothes in case _you want_ to wash up."

Peering through the blackened panel, clothes in-hand, Chris sees Wesker seated and trembling on the floor where he'd previously been standing. Not curled up, but his fight to not do so is obvious. Like there's something in him telling him to do it. For all Chris knows, there is. Knocking, then slowly opening the door, he's instantly become the source of Wesker's panic. "Just gonna leave these here." Deciding it best to keep his distance, to not risk ruining this small but huge improvement, he places the folded clothes on the floor beside the door.

Not allowed to curl up the way that comforts him most ( _at all_ ), the way he'd done for…maybe a day or so since getting here, Albert doesn't know what to do now. In the prison, he was never stuck with options. A single one is so demanding now, so terrifyingly stressful. Food, water - neither existed or mattered with Sergei. Clothes, speaking - definite no's. Chris offering them to him is as entirely distressing as confusing. Everything he'd learned well to do without. Everything decided for him before. All he'd had to do was exist, and that on its own meant he'd be brutalized. Doing things gets him into worse trouble, and they’re all Chris wants him to do. Things. Painful, terrifying things. Of all the ways he’s messed up and gotten himself punished, Chris’ tactic is going to get him hurt the worst.

Chris will get him used to doing things, and when Sergei comes back… Albert has absolute hell to pay. For sleeping in that bed, for wearing these clothes, for any decision Chris will convince him to make. For every little act he's committed since the start of this game. For every "safe" and "okay" Chris repeatedly likes to claim Albert is, that's how many times over he's going to be _ruined_. The knowledge is crippling. He wants to curl up tight as he ever has, but if he does that, he’ll be restrained and then… And then he doesn’t know. But it won’t be good. It never is. He's undeserving of anything good.

Being relentlessly hit by a barrage of one terrifying confusion after the next, he’s late to note an outstanding fact that lends to his terror. No part of him hurts. Sergei _demands_ his suffering. But Chris persists in not hurting him for some reason, and now his arms are completely pale again. Every bone feels healed too, nothing grinding against or digging into anything it's not meant to. Even his rectum and genitals aren't paining him, and really, those are the surest signs that it's been too long since he's been hurt. Albert imagines it isn't a stretch to assume he'll be taken apart quite thoroughly for healing so much. For not suffering for…however long it's been.

Fingernails worry at a thin scar on his elbow as it smooths out again, teeth at the inside of his lower lip. Chris is definitely toying with him. Had even made the needle not hurt. Twice, he thinks. Lets him not wake up to rape and torture. If it ever _was_ rape or torture. It's his purpose, really. All he's good for. He just…doesn't like it. Not the way he's supposed to. Which doesn't matter, but Chris isn't moving to use him yet, so perhaps it's not so terrible to take the lie for as long as it's offered.

All this worrying after waiting so long for Chris to leave is exhausting, makes him teeter where he sits. But is he meant to sleep in the bed? He's not supposed to curl up on the floor or he'll be locked in the other one. _A trap_ , he realizes. Another way to fall for the comfort of lies. However, the idea of merely touching the bed cannot be farther from comforting, the feel of it nothing more than a reminder of Sergei's punishment. Like last time. Chris _and_ Jill had been there for that. Then he'd felt the pinch of another needle that didn't put him through impossible agony, and woke up restrained.

Not knowing what's allowed, he simply remains seated and trembling where Chris had already seen, and falls asleep.

It must have something to do with so much consideration of the bed when he ends up reliving Sergei’s correction again. But in the middle of groveling, he hears his name. _“Wesker!”_ On hands and knees, his streaming eyes crack open. Startling wearily, he glances up to find the blur of Sergei calling him still, hears the threat in his voice, begins crawling again, begging and apologizing.

“Wesker, no, it’s me. It’s Chris,” but he just keeps begging him and crawling toward him. “Hey, no, it’s okay. Wesker… _Albert_ ,” nothing good enough, but he’s getting closer and Chris is torn between concern for Wesker and fear for what he might do if they end up touching while he's unaware. Chris hasn't forgotten what he'd seen a drone-like Wesker do to that one inmate, nor to that guard. An attack is the last thing he needs to let occur. “Wesker, _STOP_!” It works. Sets Wesker scrambling back to crash impressive dents into the wall, and leaves Chris in a state of a dozen apologies, but it works.

They fall into a new routine where Wesker mainly sleeps and has terrors. He balls up sometimes, but comes apart after minutes of light encouragement. The fearful way he forces himself to do so makes Chris sure he only does it to keep from being restrained or worse, and Chris has never felt more the bad guy. Five days of careful coaxing see soup and water very tentatively and miserably accepted. Chris' guilt nearly gets him to say it's okay if he doesn't, but it's already been too long since he _has_.

His presence remains unwelcome, Wesker still fighting against sleep until Chris leaves. Sleep that he wakes in terrified hysterics - screaming, crying, panicking - from without fail. Chris fills those times murmuring hopeful, soft but firm reassurances, reminding him that he's not there, that he's not going to be hurt.

Comprehension of how Sergei could abuse him so mercilessly is far beyond Chris. For years he's hated Wesker too, but there's not much he wouldn't do to _ease_ those anguished pleading, heart-breaking sounds; can't understand how or why the hell anyone would want to add to them. What purpose it could serve. What little Chris _can_ do doesn't help much, but at least it doesn't worsen things.

Chris himself dreams of water and fire. Of explosions that should have ended the existence of _every_ Sergei Vladimir. Dreams of muted, incinerating implosions within a stasis tank, a preferable scenario where he'd gone ahead and given the destruct mechanism a successful go. Because _fuck_ Sergei Vladimir.

A handful of times, Wesker thinks himself before the bastard again. Either tearing his clothes in frantic removal of them or groveling fearfully toward Chris, sometimes both. Other times in tandem. Stomach, heart or both in his throat, Chris reiterates a mantra of gentle reminders. “You're not there,” or “it's me Chris"; because shouting and saying "no" only scare him, and he'll only do those if Wesker gets too close. Then it's back to things like “you’re safe” and “no one’s going to hurt you.” Ever hopeful that the words will eventually sink in. The effort is every bit as draining as necessary, and more than he'd ever care to admit, Chris wishes someone would pop in and give him shit just so he could explode.

Initially baffling is the first time Wesker wakes in a seemingly physically pained manner. Traumatic ejection from sleep goes the same, but the way he huddles in - whole frame quaking, hands deep in his lap, quietly whimpering and sobbing “no” after miserable “no” into it - leaves Chris feeling most helpless. Words at all worsen it, so there's nothing Chris can do, and he aches to touch him, to comfort him in that way. Wesker's indirect, somehow paler and more terrified regard as he cries makes Chris think maybe he’d harmed one or both hands and was hiding it. A step forward to ask what's wrong makes him huddle tighter, turns those no's into please's. Then Chris recalls the times Wesker had woken unclothed and with his hands at his groin. It'd been easier then to see what he'd been shielding (and why). Chris gives him privacy when he wakes up that way anymore.

Sometimes Chris swears he senses frustration coming from Wesker, but it's just too hard to truly discern anything past the fear.

The sick feeling that had began after rescuing Wesker never leaves, merely raises and hardly falls, like the expanding mercury of a thermometer stuck in simmering to boiling heat. Much of the time, Chris answers and somewhat relieves it with angry, frustrated tears of his own. Jill visits, makes life better, but nothing really touches the dark cloud that's been cast over him.

It seems like days go on in this strange and unnerving routine. Chris constantly being there, bringing him food, bringing him clothes when he ruins his. Talking to him, always…pretending to care. When Albert mistakes him for Sergei and makes his way towards him, he doesn't so much as lay a finger on him. Even when he wakes up aroused and pathetic, Chris doesn't come near, just leaves him until he's over it. Chris has yelled once, but only to wake him, then apologized profusely afterward. Albert isn't sure what to think. Or believe. How to make sense of Chris wasting so much time with this performance instead of making him perform. From the look of it, Chris is as happy to be here as he is, but it's _his_ choice to be.

The drill goes on for long enough that he starts becoming used to Chris' presence, begins thinking it disarming, relieving. Starts letting himself want again, and he hurts. Though seized by the agony of phantom pains constantly, the ache of want is the first real one he’s experienced in a while, and he shudders with it.

Though the terrifying man resides in vivid clarity - syringe in hand, stood beside a frowning Chris; sometimes Jill too, a hard promise of vengeance gleaming in her eyes - in his nightmares, it's been a time since he's actually seen Sergei. He's seen Jill here with Chris, staring unflinchingly at him with wide eyes, but she'd thankfully left soon after. Neither one of them have hurt him so far, no matter what he does wrong.

So many rules broken now, Albert is almost prepared to outright ask to be hurt. It's too much. The not knowing, the constant waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Sergei to come marching in to make him pay for existing again. For daring to exist without suffering. For thinking himself safe or whatever Sergei will say he's done.

Chris' game has gone on for…what feels like a long time, and he doesn't want to go through the numerous hours of non-stop agony Sergei once punished him with. Healing him continually so he wouldn't pass out from blood loss and would always be able to feel. He could weep just recalling it, but he thinks he's…angry? He can't say, but it's an emotion he'll certainly be hurt for, so maybe he should keep letting Chris play his games. Let him keep adding to the unpaid tab of Albert's broken rules.

The bad part, he thinks, is that he doesn't mind. Yes, he's going to pay for his misdeeds at some point, but that point is not now, and this…isn't too bad. Even the nightmares are tolerable since he's not being fucked the second he surfaces. No additional fuel for his terrors at every waking moment. Maybe if he reverts to not doing the things he isn't supposed to, the game will last longer. Or maybe Chris will grow irate over Albert's failure to break the rules Chris wants him to. Will stop wasting so much on him and end things sooner. Then he'll be punished for thinking he was smart enough to manipulate a thing. Chris will send him back to Sergei, who won't waste a second in reminding him how stupid he actually is to try and prolong his time away from suffering.

What won't ever dawn on him is that he's for months not had a _second_ free of suffering.

The worst part, he knows, is that he wants this. Wants it to be true. He wants to believe every word Chris says. To not be so afraid of him. He doesn't think he was ever afraid of Chris before. Of _losing_ to him, sure, but not of _him_. But now. Well, now it's different. Like Chris noticed aloud, he isn’t the same. But Chris doesn't know that he doesn't want to destroy anything anymore - except maybe himself, could it be a final act. That he doesn't want to fight with or for anyone, least of all himself on the latter. He never did, he knows that. Now that it’s too late. Too late, and so Chris won't care to hear it. He shouldn't care what Albert has to say at all. Should be _glad_ to see him so beaten.

The good Chris he betrayed might be understanding, he thinks. If this is the same Chris, then maybe Albert wasn't stupid to ask for his help. Maybe he did rescue him. Every needle Albert's taken since hasn't hurt at all. Outside of nightmares and hallucinations, he hasn't even seen an inmate for…some time. But, like before, trusting in this might hurt, and it's almost impossible to consider that his pain could reach new heights, but it could. It will, and he’ll deserve it; have asked for it. If he trusts Chris and it's a lie…

The day comes when Wesker pauses his weary clambering away after a softly impeded groveling attempt, stopping before he reaches the preferred safety of his side. Chris sighs in sympathy when all he's evidently done so for is to cry, nearly feeling like he could join in.

“Why?”

Chris barely comprehends the broken syllable uttered past Wesker’s insistent, quiet sobs. For all the time Wesker spends sleeping, that worn look doesn't go anywhere. Dark circles, that can easily pass for bruising, under contrasting eyes bright with torment that focus poorly on the floor between them.

“Hm?” The small noise all he makes, afraid to actually say anything more when more might very well wreck this moment.

“Why won’t…you just… just,” he seems torn, softly hiccuping, the end of his shirt bunched in a tightly squeezing hand, visibly frustrated as he continues, “ _get on_ …with it?” Wiping at his eyes with his free hand after finishing, but still his shoulders shake.

He's known from the start that Wesker expects abuse, that saying he won't hurt him does nothing, so he asks, “With what?” For some reason, it makes Wesker cry more and release his shirt to do so into the backs of his hands. Explicitly tender in tone, Chris coaxes him to continue. “With what, Wes-“

“ _I don’t know_!” sounding harassed and pleading. “I don’t know…” weeping. Chris unmoving, heart simply shattering before fresh rage bubbles up for Sergei and those prisoners all over again, but he wisely shoves the anger down for now.

With a sudden sharp gasp, Wesker's whole demeanor changes, hands trembling over his mouth, freshly terrified eyes on Chris' for once, shoulders no longer shaking but hunched in fear. “ _Sorry_!” he whispers harshly behind his fingers, turning away, shifting, appearing to war over the decision to ball up. “I-I-I’m sorry, sorry, sorry…” trembling and cowering, but not curling up. Not closing off or shutting down when Chris doesn’t budge.

“It’s okay," Chris assures. "It's okay to be angry.” But Wesker shakes his head and shakily makes his way back to his own side. All is quiet for a while, the both of them with their thoughts for the time.

After more than a week of nothing, this is decidedly _something_. Tired as Chris is, the excitement of an answered hope - not sickness for once - stirs in his gut. Perpetually scared and exhausted, even sleep taxing for him, Wesker had spoken to him. Had let out an unquestionably overdue outburst of emotion that _wasn't_ terror. _I knew he was frustrated, dammit._ It's definite progress.

“Wesker, I don’t blame you for not trusting me. I just…hope you will at some point. I won’t give up on helping you,” he says inside a relieved sigh, settling against the wall with a pillow between it and his head. “I promise.” Something in Chris’ quiet determination must speak to something in Wesker’s ever present fear because he settles. On the floor, he curls up - _loosely_ \- gingerly placing his head on the end of the mattress and falls asleep, his glowing eyes staring an impossible blend of emotions at Chris until they can't.

Waiting for the truth became unbearable. Not knowing if all this was a lie, because it surely was. It _had_ to be. There was no other way, and he needed. Needed to know the truth, to hear it, to cause it, so he snapped. Shouted at Chris because he _didn't_ know what Chris might do to him, only that it'd be something painful and awful, and after yelling, he knew he'd done it. He knew he'd find out; be punished. But Chris hadn't moved or yelled back. Offered only kind words, and Albert simply didn't have the strength to care if he was lying. He let himself believe and fell asleep with Chris there, certainly afraid but willing to pay the price. If Chris wanted to waste time on him, it wasn't like Albert could do anything about it.

But more time passes, and Chris' tune stays the same. He encourages Albert to talk, to give an opinion on what he'd like to eat or drink, if he wants anything at all, and he never knows how to respond. Easy as yes and no answers are, shrugging is easier. Perhaps asking for or declining things will prompt a change. He doesn't want that. But frustration invades his mind again.

"Why are you…doing this?" he finally asks, flinching, chewing on his lip, gaze on his own fidgeting hands in his lap.

"Doing what?"

"Pretending…" he gets out after shuddering hesitation. He really doesn't want things to change, but the longer it takes, the worse it'll be. "For so long."

"Wesker," Chris' tone patient but serious, instantly unnerving him because he can hear the correction coming; knows those are done with more than statements. "I'm not."

Though Chris says no more and does nothing, he _has_ to be. Albert knows it! He _has_ to be lying, but Albert can't _hear it_. Is too afraid to look because then he'll see it - the cold truth staring back at him in an uncharacteristically frigid blue. "Wesker, look at me." And he knows that's a trick, but he can't do it anyway. Seeing the truth will ruin everything, and he thought he was ready to know, but he isn't. This will be over. He'll be back in the prison, with Sergei, in agony, alone. " _Albert_." That yanks him free of his downward spiral. No one amongst the living calls him that. Nerve-racked, wide orange eyes meet solemn blues.

"Shit, I'm sorry." Only because he's looking does Albert see the wince is actually born of regret. "You seemed a bit stuck there," Chris reasons sympathetically, and then sighs. "And I understand you’ve been through…fucking hell, Wesker. But _I promise_ I'm _not_ pretending. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. What can I _do_ to help you see that this is real? That I'm still the same…caring idiot you knew?"

"I…don't understand." Hands fidgeting harder, body shifting in discomfort. There's nothing Chris can say to make him believe this is anything more than a cruel game, quite possibly nothing he can do.

"That I want to help you?"

"Yes,” just a whisper, but he nods so his answer is clear. “I- _We_ ," he corrects himself, "know I don't…deserve it. That I…should be punished." He stares hard at his hands to keep from looking up, wanting to know but afraid of the agreement he'll find waiting for him there.

"I guess I disagr-"

" _Stop_." Blinking back the weakness, hunching further into his lap. "I-I _don't_. You kn-" Chris _knows_ this! "I was…" he can barely say it, "where I belonged…before. I don't- I'm not…"

"That isn't true."

" _Yes_ , it _is_!" Looking up, terrified and imploring for a horrible truth, all he sees is…sadness. And something he doesn't recognize. No anger, no disdain or resentment, no mockery. Just Chris. Giving him a look that Albert would certainly have scowled at and likely smashed before those reactions were ripped out of him. But even without them, he's ruining things anyway. Just as he always does. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, I-I just- I can't…I _don't_ understand."

After a few unsettling seconds, Chris breaks it with a bright but firm reassurance. “You know what, that's okay. You don't have to. But I am only here to help you," he repeats. "Because I believe you do deserve it,” enunciating each word clearly, nothing but patience in his tone. “Maybe that's stupid, but it's _right_. Wesker, you _know_ me." He does. He did. He doesn't know. "I got you out of there, away from that," he murmurs. "So you shout at me, throw things… Do what you need to. I won't give up on you." Because he’s always determined. But that won’t matter here.

"I- What if…I _can't_ be helped?" he worries aloud, only now noticing how hard he’s trembling as he stares at his quaking hands. His voice and lips quivering too. "If I…fail you?" After a lifetime of failure, that's a near guarantee. He fails absolutely everyone. Then he suffers for it.

"Thing is, you can't fail. Only I can, and I won't. I promise." Like it's the simplest thing in the whole world, the only thing that makes sense. _He's lying._ Albert doesn't mean to start crying, but a tiny broken sob that wracks his frame is all it takes to set him off. Just _hearing_ that definite lie is a lot for him. But crushing as it is, it won’t come close to grazing the total decimation of when Chris betrays him the way he once did him. Again, he's utterly torn. Wanting and knowing better.

"You’re- lying," crying into his hands, hiding from any response Chris might give. Real or not, he's been shown kindness here, and any at all is more than he could ever have dared dream for. The unexpected touch to his arm makes him flinch, but there's no real defensive intent to it, just a frightened sound. He's too afraid and beaten, too confused and impossibly hopeful. _'Needy little whores get what they deserve, Albert!'_

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, mentally resigning himself to any fate Chris might throw at him now, after all the undeserved kindness he's wasted- is _still_ wasting in the form of a caress at his arm. He apologizes again only to be softly shushed, told it’s okay. "I'm sorry," he repeats anyway, through a break still going quite strong, tears running alongside words he needs to get out however he can. He's breaking so many rules. Knows he's supposed to obey and shut up, knows better than to make eye contact or ask questions or argue or cry, but he owes Chris at least this. "Sorry for- betraying…hurting- you. Sorry I- was afraid." He's told not to worry about it, but it’s all he should ever concern himself with, every past action a reason for why he deserves to suffer.

But Chris just reins him in ever so gently. Holds him close. Holds him up and together when he'd been feeling like he was shattering into roiling waves again. "Please… _please_ …" _…don't hurt me…forgive me._ But those are things he's _never_ been able to ask for. It’s the most flooring, impossibly wonderful and inconceivable thing he's ever heard when Chris forgives him as he fails to ask. Promises not to hurt him so easily, so sincerely.

Under the gentle force of Chris’ comforting care - not rejection nor mockery - Albert ultimately does break anew. His sobs livening with an astounding strength of relief. Chris soothes with a hand in his hair, another at his back, sways him like he's something precious to be cherished. Like how he feels matters. Lets him cry into his chest and doesn't push him away, not even when he eventually clings back and thanks him over and over again until even the softest sound is far beyond his ability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sweeter the coffee the better. Three double shots thrown in it? Best.


	5. Chapter 5

_Finally._ Internally thrumming with a boundless relief of his own, tears snake down Chris’ wholly grateful expression of it. Finally, he's able to give a long overdue physical comfort to the intermittently shivering man pressed up against him.

While his move _could_ have been in error, he honestly didn't think it would be. The situation seemed right. They were speaking, and Wesker wasn't lost in some imagined world. He was thinking for the present. Poorly, but his thoughts were entire ideas. Entirely perverted ones, but Chris isn't so unfamiliar with the effects of torture. He's just never seen anyone so mentally beaten by it. That it's someone who'd been as commanding and self-contained as Albert Wesker had only makes it worse. Means the torment had to be astronomical.

The day of footage he saw was way too much for anyone to have to go through, not to mention live with since anyone else's suffering would have ended long before the recording. But it's only the tiniest fraction of a whole. Healing factor aside, Chris has seen that Wesker experiences and reacts to pain like most anyone else, that he avoids it when possible. The abuse he endured- God, what Sergei did to him- What the _inmates_ were doing to him in the yard.

The whole of it has to be so far past inhumane Chris shudders to imagine it. Refocusing his attentions on the here and now, he hopes his hardest for Wesker's natural resiliency to shine once more. Someday.

Saddening as that string of broken apologies was, it was something of a relief to hear the more specific ones, but now Chris is curious about the last of them. _'Sorry I was afraid.'_ It won't leave him alone, but there's plenty of time to ask later. Much later because the last thing he can imagine doing now is hound Wesker for information. He just wants to let the poor man rest in some semblance of peace for a while now he's actually fallen asleep while _not_ in absolute terror. He knows Wesker will keep this fear close for a long time coming, knows it's going to take a lot longer for such an ingrained and evolved terror to fade even a little. The same for his severe distrust.

But all the days of defeat lose their weight under the eclipsing enormity of this victory. Every single invaluable second lead to this, and Chris is optimistic that each following one can only lead to more improvement. His main hope now is that Wesker remembers when he wakes up.

As if his thought has called upon it, he hears - and now feels - the sadly familiar sounds of a terror coming on. Little telltale noises of fear and pain, and the twitching of Wesker's body only seen before. The increase in light shivers that will explode into quaking. And he’s aware it may not gain the greatest results of _all_ time, but it feels too wrong to let go of his first chance to _physically_ coax Wesker out of it. He just hopes Wesker won't make impressive dents in the wall with _him_ under a potential lashing out brought on by being roused from a nightmare with touch. Too bad he's never been all that great at self-concern when confronted with someone he deems worth the risk.

The risk…

_Shit!_ Mentally cursing upon remembrance of the deal, he quickly but gently - forever gently - starts on waking the man before things can take a turn for riskier.

"Shhh…"

_"Hey, you're okay…"_

Albert is awakened caged in warmth, pulled from countless phantom agonies by the alien contrast of a soft touch running over his back. Because the words waking him are clear, his first thought is that Sergei's angry with him over something he’s unconsciously done wrong ( _again_ ), and he freezes. Snaps his eyes open and sends a timorous look up to that hateful stare that strikes him rigid, and he gasps as much as the constriction of every part of him that takes in air allows. " _No_.." less than a broken whimper.

_"Shh shh, it's me Chris. I'm right here, okay? You're safe-"_

Even in his peripheral vision he can't see Chris. _Why_ can't he see him? _Help, please, help…_ Far too afraid to speak or outright look away, he disobediently stares a knowing terror at Sergei's looming ire before it steadily…floats off? A monstrous cloud pushed away to reveal the brightness of deeply concerned, warm blue. _Chris_! Albert thinks he gets the name out as his lungs kick in and before instantly lunging up to bury his terror in the welcoming warmth of where neck meets shoulder, fingers latching hard onto anything they can.

"Yeah, it's me, I'm here. You okay?" He nods, small noises escaping past the forceful catching of his breath. Pressing in closer, that gentling hand he appreciates more than the lack of pain returns to run calming digits through his hair, making his breath hitch. His for once quieter thoughts unable to grasp how Sergei _wasn't_ and yet this _is_ real. "You were having a nightmare." He nods again, squeezing his eyes shut, but in the dark, Sergei's face awaits.

Eyes open, he sees nothing but their illuminating glow against fabric, turning the light blue a delicate ochre. He lets Chris' touch relax him little by little, thinking how bizarre this reality is. How wonderfully amazing and strange. Half-sure that he's lost his mind to get here because it's plausible enough. Because this feels so… _good_.

_'Enjoy it while it lasts, you dirty little slut.'_ Spencer’s memory tries ruining the moment, and it grazes the edges of surreal how easy it is to raggedly sigh off the tension with Chris' gracious fingers grounding him here in this reality. The strong arm at his back like a silent promise to keep him safe. " _Thank you_ ," he breathes, gratitude loud in his breathy whisper.

Chris sighs away the minimal tension that tried to work its way in. Feeling…he isn’t sure how to word it. Knows he’s over the goddamn moon, but 'happy' and 'thrilled' and 'over orbiting globes' doesn’t seem enough. It’s an old feeling, he comes to recognize. A good one he knows the placated man in his care is the cause of. Not only the clear progress but the man himself.

Somehow, even now and in this, pleasing- or, rather, _doing well_ by Albert Wesker _still_ manages to make Chris’ heart swell with grateful pride. Pressing him closer, he feels right where he should be, and _maybe_ doing what no one else can. Too pure in goodness and threaded with humility to ever be misconstrued as arrogance. In S.T.A.R.S., Chris knew to leave that to Wesker. Wonders now if it’s too much to hope for at least the return of that personality.

Privately, Chris blames himself for what Wesker went through, because of course he does. He’s made taking the blame work by telling himself he should have made sure Wesker was dead. Should have anticipated his survival and, thus, prevented all this. He’d be imprisoned, but safe from Sergei Vladimir’s twisted revenge. Likely tested on, but not being put through anything where he'd end up like this, of that Chris would've made sure. The arrogant asshole Wesker of before would no doubt sneer at his efforts and push every last one of his buttons all the while. So many years since he's wished Wesker had made a better choice all that time ago, it carries an almost nostalgic undercurrent to it now.

As of bare minutes ago, Chris knows without a shred of doubt that there aren’t very many things he’ll deny his former captain now. He’ll give him anything ( _harmless_ ) he asks for, everything he needs and offer more. He almost pities anyone foolish enough to try and hurt him again, and has no plans of giving up on figuring out ways to do away with Sergei once and for all, high security basement cell or not.

Albert wakes violently from his terrors, having felt softness underneath himself. Instantly terrified, he shoves away a grunting warmth, scooting back, back, away, until he hits ungiving resistance and curls up, breaths laced with strings of pleading whines. A deeper, muffled voice breaks through.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re safe. It’s me. It’s Chris.” Chris? Redfield? Hated enemy? Giving the room a distressed once over, his memory sifts through most recent events and catches up to what lead to them being on opposite ends of this room, the mattress between them.

Chris Redfield… _not_ his hated enemy. The one who ( _seemingly_ ) let that rivalry go and saved him. The one who hasn't ( _yet_ ) hurt him.

Gradually calming breaths at once pause, Albert leveling a look of alarm on Chris' hands. Sees them rubbing at his chest. Where Albert's quite certain he battered him in getting himself free of the recently terrifying embrace. Fear is quick to invade his mind, reminding him in a flash that he's not good, not worthy of Chris or care or help; will always fail, even when he supposedly can't. Failure is his calling, to be sure. He's at last proven he can't be helped or trusted enough for anyone to attempt it, and now he's forced Chris' likely act to be dropped. _‘You really are good for nothing.’_ Truly, he is.

“Sorry,“ eking out the apology. "I'm sorry." A hard flinch per word amid his heavy quaking.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s my fault,” Chris’ sleep husky voice assures him. He doesn’t appear angry, but Sergei and Spencer had sported false images at times too.

_'See what you've done, Albert.'_

_'This is your fault, Wesker.'_

And _every_ failure is his fault.

“I’m sorry, I-I know…it's my fault,” stammering, curling up tighter and trembling harder. “I didn't m- I’m sorry, please, I’m s-“

“ _Al_.” The emphasis is enough to shut him up, but it's the mystifying name that yanks him free from the hold of the voices in his head.

Chris is hardly trying to be funny, but _Albert_ and _Wesker_ weren’t working. This one doesn’t seem to carry any trauma, if the soft frown of plain confusion peeking from that sad huddle is anything to go by. Almost endearing if not for this entire situation, if not for the miserable fact that he knows Wesker expects Chris to hurt him in some vile way. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean me any harm. And I should've been keeping an eye out, not sleeping. My fault,” seeing Wesker's frightened look of disbelief, that untrusting anxiety he has for almost all of Chris' reassurances, he turns it into that frown again, “and I apologize. Can you forgive me?"

It's not intentional that he stares so dumbly, but Albert's probably just cracked Chris' ribs for no reason, and the oddity of man is asking for… _his_ forgiveness? Quite unbelievable. Very likely to be a trick of some variety, but he nods anyway. Steadily slow, at the height of suspicion. Keeps it going until Chris gives him an _‘okay’_ and actually thanks him, bringing him out from at least the ball of tension.

Simple verbal forgiveness isn’t something he’s familiar with. Neither in giving nor in receipt. Forgiveness requires earning…by way of suffering. Apologies, pleading - Spencer repeatedly said they made for good foreplay. Sergei called them pathetic. And Albert…well. He'd favored a god’s forgiveness.

Leave the incompetent behind to die, or hand deliver the kill himself. He'd felt so powerful, if any way at all. Ending human lives had for so many years felt like taking out rubbish or extracting anomalies. Now, it fills him with guilt, self-loathing and a good amount of fear because he knows he should still be suffering for every life he took. Knows he shouldn't ever be forgiven. That he should never have fought so hard for his worthless life back when he still had the chance to die.

Chris forgave him anyway; keeps doing it, and Albert doesn't know what to think.

Their relationship of old made a fair replacement for Albert's rivalry with Birkin. While his and Will’s was amiable, the one he forged with Chris was…playful enough. That he didn’t outright kill Chris the first chances he had made it plenty friendly in Albert’s mind. Chris became familiar and dependable - someone fun to mock and annoy, and who always rose to the challenge. But this, now, is different. There’s no competition he’s aware of, and he seriously doubts they’ll ever be friends. While he thinks it might be a game, there’s never any amusement in Chris’ expression or diction to support it. No mockery. No violence. Nothing to suggest a lingering grudge. It doesn't mean there isn't one.

He feels confused, and…something else, something foreign, but oddly welcome. Safe perhaps, but allowing himself outright belief in that is too dangerous.

Getting back to the confusion, Albert cannot comprehend what’s just transpired. “I…attacked you.” Not long ago - or maybe very long ago - Albert would have killed anyone who dared strike him, unwittingly or not. No better than how Sergei punished him for unconscious perpetrations.

“Not on purpose," and to make it all the more perplexing, Chris shrugs.

"It's- That's…not an excuse." He knows it. Surely Chris knows he's aware of at least that much.

"No, but it matters," Chris says, like it does and is a universally known fact. Albert just shakes his head in tiny motions, lost. "Was it on purpose?"

Shaking his head more perceptibly when he gasps out a soft, "No." Nearly pleading to stammer out, "I-I wouldn't…on purpose."

"I believe you." So sure Albert can be trusted, even after what he's done. After _all_ he's done. "I know you were just scared, that you expected…just- horrific…shit. And…god you probably still do, but Wesker, _I wouldn't_. Not ever. There's no justice in the disgusting things they did to you." Isn't there? Albert's disgusting too. "That mindless abuse is what caused your nightmares in the first place." The truth of that hurts like a gut punch while already staring up at the spinning lights, no existing counter for it; makes him stare at his shaking hands in his lap as they grow blurry. "Dammit, I won't hurt you. I don't even want to anymore." Pained and desperate as sincere, but still it frightens him back into action enough so he's at the very least anticipating the physical blow. It never comes.

Just like that, he's let Albert’s failure go. Apparently having bad dreams is an acceptable excuse for his poor behavior, and he's really not going to be punished. Stomach down from his throat, it's making him cry, and he doesn't know why. Relief perhaps. That strange relief Chris keeps causing. “Hey, it's okay. Is it alright if I come over there?" Asking for permission, of all things. Albert just nods, weeping in silence, so fucking lost. He hopes Chris can fix him, or at least that he truly wants to, but he doubts. Helping monsters has never been on Chris' itinerary, so he doubts so very much the initially startling arm across his shoulders pulling him into Chris' side. Fright betrayed by the sharp sound it forces out of him. Ages later, there's no making sense of how Chris can be so foolishly doubtless when it's Albert he's dealing with.

He must come down from something because he forgets where he is and jumps. Chris saying his name in response makes him jump harder, and nearly burst into some overwhelmed, wretched mess. The reminder that he won't hurt him is more assuaging than it's ever been before…today? Fearful for all the best reasons, he nods, wide eyes stealing more glimpses of what he'd thought fiction for so long: proof that he might not have reason to be.

"You…wanna talk about it?” Specifying that he means about the nightmare when Albert keeps to his distressed silence.

"I… Why?"

"Sometimes," Chris says into the top of his head, "talking to the right person helps. You definitely don’t _have_ to," Chris assures, "but anything you do want to talk about, I'm here."

If anyone is the right person it's Chris. He deserves to know how unclean and wrong the thing he's throwing his time away on is. How wasted his effort to mend such a used mess almost certainly is. If it's anything pure he's hoping to uncover, better to squash that optimism now and let him know that that isn't the case. Pulling away, he stares at his fidgeting hands and begins. “Th-They always fucked me. All… Always. I-I thought- I _always_ think- When I wake up. That’s why-“ Though gingerly placed, the hand over the top of his own ends his anxious words with a sharp gasp and flinch.

“Alright. It’s okay,” while his calming gesture fails enormously, it does take Wesker out of that stumbled quavering through a horrifying explanation for why he wakes up terrified. Chris had to end it, determined he not carry on under the notion that he has a single thing to explain. “You have nothing to explain or prove.” At the severe look of miserable suspicion, "You don't. Don't you think I would've arrested you if I blamed you?" Imploring as it is, it isn't the best thing to say judging by the sudden move to cower. "I don't blame you. What they did to you is not your fault, and you sure as hell didn't deserve it,” squeezing those tense fingers in encouragement before removing his unasked for touch and sighing resignedly when Wesker can’t give him an expression that conveys agreement _or_ understanding. “If there's anything _you want_ to tell me, I want to hear. Just…take your time. Nothing you say can get you in trouble."

When Chris makes it sound like that, Albert kind of definitely wants to share. Not just to prove what a waste he is, but…for the sake of sharing, he thinks. He just hasn’t spoken at length in a while. Doing so is…terrifying, was a punishable offense. He says as much, watches Chris' features darken, and goes stock still, petrified he's somehow fallen into a trap. “I’m sorry.”

“H- No," Chris waving away his apology like it can’t be more misplaced, but Albert can see he's still angry, knows he wasn't until Albert started mouthing off excuses. And the expression lightens so fast, but all he can think is how easily he's fallen for the trick he'd all along suspected. "I’m not mad at you.”

His utter perplexity must show because Chris has an answer for it.

“I know I sometimes get mad…a lot of times actually, but that's never at you. It's _for_ you. On your behalf," he says. "It’s _at_ that son of a bitch that did this to you.” Which is, as far as Albert is aware, still himself. There is one other person Chris could be referring to, but all _he'd_ done was make sure Albert paid for a lifetime of transgressions.

“You mean…Sergei?” straightening up some in trying to understand as Chris stiffens, appearing to hesitate before looking away, scratching fingers worrying at the back of his neck.

“Yeah," he finally admits, giving his attention again. "Wasn’t sure how you’d feel hearing that asshole’s name.” Strange, since he thinks it so often.

"You…disapprove of him."

"I _hate_ him," Chris clarifies in answer almost faster than Albert can finish speaking, spooking him a little. "Sorry. I just really hate what he's done to you."

"But I…” looking away and crossing his arms protectively over his chest. Fingers gripping his biceps, gently scratching back and forth over the material of the shirt. “I deserve it."

"Hate that he made you believe that too."

"He…didn't."

“Nobody deserves what was done to you, Wesker.” He wishes he could believe the generous notion, but there’s nobody else like him. He requires a heavier hand. “Or- if anyone does, it’s the no good monsters sick enough to do shit like that.”

“I’m…not good. I-I was- I _am_ …a monster.” Chris fixes him with a severe look Albert can’t discern as concern or something darker. He drops his gaze of building anxiety into his lap and after a few blinks, he stills at the question Chris asks.

“Wesker, do you miss being with him?”

Slowly, jerkily shaking his head, because he couldn't. " _Never_."

“But…you agree with what he did to you?”

He almost nods, but he pauses the motion, unsure. Glances at Chris to make sure his indecision isn't pissing him off. Though he deserves to be punished, he thinks _maybe_ Sergei took it a little far sometimes. Perhaps with the needle? He shrugs, too nervous to not side with anything done to him. Not wanting what he deserved got him in a miserable world of trouble too, and he feels like he’s slipping, sinking into the memory of it.

Chris’ next inquiry completes the immersion, steals him straightaway from this probable false reality.

“Do you… _want_ to be hurt?”

~~~

_“I think maybe you are not wanting what you deserve, rat. Get up. Show these good men now how much you want it. For starters, get rid of those stupid tears-“_

~~~

No sooner does he ask it does Chris regret his question. Every last one of them. Violently startled, Wesker shakes his head in fast little motions, and Chris mistakenly thinks it a response. "It's okay, I know you don't." But he just keeps shaking his head the same way, gets to his knees, his terrified orange eyes staring at a spot on the floor ahead. Chris lets his fingers graze Wesker's and the flinch it causes is as violent as he's ever witnessed, and Wesker resettles on his knees and stares at the same point. He never even looked his way. Chris gets up and puts space between them, keeping that terrorized stare in view. Whatever is making Wesker tremble so fiercely in silent panic isn’t anything in the room.

_Sergei._ He already knows because who the hell else will it ever be?

When tears fall, Wesker quickly and repeatedly wipes at them, a sad frown affecting his otherwise petrified face just a bit. Sniffling, he starts cutting off and swallowing down gasps until that calms some, but the tears keep coming.

It's reminiscent of the scene he and Jill witnessed when Wesker came out of sedation. Proves to be infinitely worse when Wesker puts the hand _not_ wiping at his eyes down his pants; not to protect, but to reluctantly begin stroking himself, face finally breaking alongside a lot of his fought for calm as he does. Breathing freed of his control, he still tries. What he's doing is akin to how an abused child tries to stop crying when ordered to. Knowing he's hit the nail on the head there, Chris' gut clenches hard, something ugly, hollow and cold _rolling_ there. A pitiful apology follows every little sob, more stuttering choked attempts at closing off his emotions, and Chris just punches the reinforced wall and howls. Lets out so much built up frustration and rage.

~~~

_"How many times do I have to tell you to stop fucking crying, you worthless rat?"_

_"Sorry, sorry…" He has to try harder, to obey, but it's a losing battle. With an inmate brutally raping him, trying to keep masturbating_ and _say he likes and wants it_ and _quell his tears while knowing he's failing only breaks him into finer pieces. He wipes them away, but he can't stop them. And now another inmate is approaching._

_"Do not interfere, Wesker."_

_His tremulously stroking hand is slapped away and he sees the glowing metal and can't look, knows it's going to hurt. And it does. More - always more - than he anticipated, and he needs to grab into something. Isn't allowed to touch or impede anyone, and by the time his screech tapers down, his fingers gouge yet deeper and deeper into both outer thighs. Sergei's is voice already there._

_"Tell him you like it." He does, something help him he does and he can't stop saying it, if only to keep from outright sobbing. "Tell him you want more." And he does that too. "Stop. Fucking. Crying." He apologizes, tries, tries, screams, tries, wails and tries to obey._

_What he's supposed to say and do gets so terribly lost to the agony and chaos of his mind that he's pliant and unaware of_ what _he's whining by the time Sergei tells him to shut up._

_"You really are good for nothing, Wesker. But I am a generous man, willing to give you as many chances as you need."_

_Another pair of men, another failed effort. Again and again until he requires the pain of the needle to return from an apparent break from reality._

~~~

Mentally and emotionally drained, Chris hoarsely and continually calls to him while Wesker carries on whimpering words now, Chris only just catching them here and there. He's saying he likes it, that he wants more, is sorry. His eventually emotion thick voice breaks on almost every word. Then his stroking hand jerks away from his body, falling limp, and he curls up and _shrieks_. His muffled words are even less comprehensible past poorly restrained sobbing, and Chris can't fight another break at how wretched this is. How unconscionable and reprehensible.

He puts his head in his hands, barely feeling the one throbbing, and can't keep _shit_ together, not while having to accept that Wesker suffered…whatever the fuck this is. Not even Sergei's death, Chris knows, will help. Not enough anyway.

Every muscle straining to go to him, to hold and comfort him until this heinous flashback lets him go, he can't do it. Can't allow himself to make things worse by inviting yet another, almost certain to be exceptionally violent, involuntary assault. It devastates and infuriates him, not being able to for something as unfeeling as a deal. To deny Wesker for words on a sheet of paper. Hating the way things are, Chris lets it go and returns to calling to him, hoping it'll end soon and he'll be heard.

~~~

_"Congratulations, little rat." He has to force himself to hear it. "Amazing how much you improve when you are not all there."_

_Sergei is going to make him pay for every failure now. The agony of so many abuses already suffered attacking his entire being, ready and waiting to be multiplied._

_In tremendously unendurable times like these his pleading gaze roams the expanse of wherever he is. Seeking what, he never knows. Some tucked away residue - of his discarded hope perhaps - disconnected from his conscious thoughts, endeavoring to find something it hasn't yet given up on. Something not seen or heard in the cold viciousness of this place. But what it is, he can never actually tell._

_Could never tell until…_

"Wesker, it's me Chris. Please, Wesker-"

_Until he found it in Chris._

_"Help! Please, Chris, help me, help me, help-"_

~~~

Chris can't get to him fast enough. "I'm here, I'm right here." Rushing ahead to gather him up, altogether uncaring of and just south of noticing the spend soaked through the cotton of Wesker's pants. The only mess he cares to recognize and tend to the nonphysical. Only wiping away the extreme anguish and terror and weeping pleas are of paramount import. Assuring him he's safe, apologizing as many times as he can for his goddamn questions. Each reiterated "I'm sorry" meant for every unspeakable abuse Wesker endured, for not saving him sooner. For leaving him behind in the first place. Chris swears to himself he'll never ask Wesker anything ever again, and it doesn't even register as absurd.

It takes a long time before everything is quiet, but once it is, they stay settled in the bed. Chris' hand looks like it could use some help, but the pain barely takes his notice. It simply has to wait. The ice just a room away isn't going anywhere.

"He made me," Wesker's small, hesitant voice says out of nowhere. "I didn't- I…never…wanted it. He made me…say- I did." No mention of the other thing that scumbag made him do. There's guilt in the relief Chris feels over that.

_Bastard!_ "I know you didn’t," Chris matches his volume to assure him, pets the matted, sweat soaked strands of his hair to soothe. "You didn't deserve that. You _don't_ deserve it." Wants to add that nothing he was made to do changes the fact that he didn't want it. But at the small boost in shivers, he quietly shushes him instead. Less is more. Unless the words are Wesker's at least. Chris already majorly fucked things up once today by speaking too freely.

"Why do you…keep saying that?"

"It's true. No one does."

"But…" Chris thinks he knows which direction this is heading in, lets Wesker get it out however he needs. "You- We… _fought_ ,” sounding like he’s so hard trying to figure this out. “We are enemies. I…I made sure."

Chris sniffs out a soft laugh, an honest tinge of fondness to his mild amusement. He considers several ways he might reply, and chooses simplicity. "Doesn't make a difference. Anyway, you apologized. I forgave you." _Exciting as it's been_ , "Our fighting's over. I promised to help you, and I'm going to." The prolonged silence that follows is hopefully brought on by an accord, but Chris can't be sure. The shivers are down to their lowest conscious degree, and when Chris looks down, Wesker's expression is obscured, the side of it quite pressed to his chest.

Never minding his arms full of the man, when Wesker finally pulls away, Chris, of course, lets him. He doesn't appear bothered by anything, just exhausted, but a glimpse of the mess on his clothes is more than a bother. It replaces his weariness with horror and shame. "Y-You saw…" he chokes out.

"And I'm so sorry," Chris says as Wesker covers himself and turns away. "I'm so goddamn sorry you were so alone." _So fucking sorry I left you._ But Chris already hears the hitches in breath and saw the reddening cheeks before Wesker hung his head in miserable dejection. "I'll get you clean clothes." Pushes himself up when Wesker doesn't respond.

"M-May I…shower?" he asks, voice already thick with tears. Chris' own eyes burn in sympathy, longing to comfort him because it’s all he aches to do anymore, but it's plain to see this is a time contact won't be welcome.

"For as long as you want. Clothes'll be on the bed." Seeing that drooped mop of hair jerk with a soft, ragged inward sob, he departs. Purposely takes his time to wrap and ice his swollen and moderately oozing knuckles, and when he returns, it’s to thick billows of steam flowing past the fabric of the curtain. He wonders if the cold water is being used at all. Aware Wesker can’t burn himself irreparably anyway, Chris would rather not have considered it. Understandable though it is, Chris leaves in sympathetic worry of that being exactly what Wesker may be attempting in his need to stop feeling the remembered pains of so many abuses.

======================

After staring in the mirror for several long minutes, Albert thinks he understands how one might be deceived. Appearance wise he's roughly the same if one completely avoids his eyes and hair. But Chris saw what he'd done, what he was good for, and Albert can't figure out what reason he has to continue throwing his care around so… _carelessly_ now. Because Albert didn't want it? **Big deal**. Despite Chris' contradictions, he did deserve it, and on a physiological level he even enjoyed it. Many times over. To this day, Spencer was on the money about that. Misplaced apology aside, Chris witnessed the truth of that as well.

Curled up under the spray of scalding hot water, Albert just wants to be left alone. Forever. Unfortunately, he can't fall asleep here. Waking up on the floor of a running shower will make for a poor allowance, especially if the water runs cold to do it. Forcing himself up and out, he only half hopes he'll be alone in the room. Exhausted as he remains to be, a restless sleep is surely in his near future. Waking up terrified is another sure thing, but if he doesn't have to do it alone…

Crazily enough, it is easier with Chris around. If Chris still wants to help him and hasn't grown sick of his pathetic needs, then maybe he's as hopeless as Albert ever was. And maybe that makes him feel just the tiniest bit better.

The rest of the day passes in silence between them. They pick at their food that way, settle in that way, fall asleep that way. Shivers rising and falling for reasons Chris can only guess at, Wesker looks to be deep in his head, figuring out what he needs to. Interrupting that process is not an existing option in Chris' mind. He takes Jill’s calls out of the room and returns to the quiet afterward.

Their night's rest is broken just once. After Chris rushes from the recliner to join him on the bed, the terrors leave Wesker alone until early morning. Chris' attempts to rouse Wesker from his nightmare aren't particularly successful, but he takes it as a mild victory when it feels like lesser bruising's been added to what's already developed on his chest. He can't know the positive significance of it when Wesker crawls over to him on the bed to tearfully apologize and seek the comfort and reassurance he needs.

Sat against the wall with a lap full of Wesker's head, pale fingers absently toying with the bottom-most hems on either side of his shirt, Chris with caressing fingers lost in blond locks and the other set soothing less tension into that broad back, the new day can end like this and Chris will consider it a win. But after calming, Wesker interrupts his light shivering with a deep breath and the silence with a hesitant inquiry.

“Would you have?”

Puzzled, Chris looks down, sees the faraway quality to the side of Wesker's gaze, and asks what he means.

“Done what- what he said.” It takes another second for Chris to catch on. Staring at his own gentling fingers, Chris lets them blur to fully consider the bleak facts and properly answer Wesker’s disconcerting attempt to take blame for doing what he had.

Continuous and limitless torture and terrorization, no end in sight… The pressure he’d been under was unfathomable and incredibly hopeless. “It could only have gotten worse it if I didn’t, right?" Wesker's nod comes a few seconds later. "Then it's no choice at all. I automatically would have done anything he said.”

"But- he still hurt me. It- didn't help…much."

"Just _believing_ it would help _at all_ would've been enough. Torture is ugly that way. He terrorized you, used it to manipulate you." Watching a tear roll down the side of Wesker's nose, "You're not to blame, not for any of it."

"But you- don't know…" so desperate to be faulted, rejecting the mere possibility of any other way. "You don't- know."

_I know nothing you did was your choice_ , he wants to say but can't. Wesker won't believe it anyway. Not bothering to maintain a steady composure to his voice, Chris pleads with him, his guilt bleeding right in. "Then tell me. Everything you wanted to before I screwed up with my questions. I promise I'll listen and not ask anything.” Because it’s what he truly seemed determined to do before Chris set him back. “For every rotten thing Sergei did to you, _he_ is to blame. I'll never see it any other way." From the way the trembling increases, Chris deeply hopes he hasn't already said the wrong thing again.

Wesker gulps before speaking. "H-He's…still alive." Leaving Chris instantly torn between hate for himself and triumph for Wesker's at least momentarily razor sharp mind spotting goddamn tenses of speech. Orange eyes can't stay put in one spot anymore, but Chris' next words remedy that. Make his head turn, to gain for Chris his rarely given full regard.

"Just until Jill and I find a way to end him for good." Direct and unwavering.

_Oh!_ That was…definitely unexpected. If it's a ploy to put him at a genuine ease, it's the best one he's heard so far.

He finds he wants to tell Chris. Everything. Wants to trust him with it all. As long as he can keep…whatever this is, he’s agreeable to simply _talking_ about anything. Chris gives him comfort where he'd received a grand total of none before, says he hates _and_ strives to kill Sergei, and doesn’t even think Albert deserved what his failings and wrongdoings earned him. Impossible as it seems, he hasn't blamed him for anything so far. _Probably_ won’t even ever use anything he says against him since his only discernible motive seems to be caring.

And maybe sharing _will_ help. Much as it was supposedly meant to, it never did at Umbrella; a cold and clinical indifference all he ever received there no matter what he said or how he reacted. It supported as fact that nothing he felt could ever matter and believing it could was stupid. Made him share less and less until it became habitual to automatically throw away superfluous emotions and focus strictly on the relevant academic. He'd been down to his final cold expression for years by then.

As a child he developed many emotionally stunting habits. Habits a quote he'd once read stated were a substitute for happiness, and wasn't that fair enough? He'd never been happy anyway. Things like happiness and love were for humans. His were power and domination. _Fear and lies._

But now there's the storm of comfort and confusion that is Chris. Willing to help and hear him, actually seeming to care about how he feels; not what he knows or can possibly do for him. No one ever cared for him before. It was never anyone's motivation to hear what he'd been through or how he felt. Supposedly he was above it. The question of whether Chris cares about or pities him niggles, but he's too much of a coward to ask, sure some significant thread will come loose in this weird tapestry of warmth if he does. For now, he's barely got a grasp on a slippery sliver of hope. Perhaps having someone who ( _possibly_ ) really cares to talk to will make a difference.

Even if Albert's faith is misplaced and Chris does throw his words back in his face at some point, as long as he doesn’t physically hurt him or return him to Sergei, he won't mind very much. It’s not that words _can’t_ hurt, but that if he could have chosen between Sergei and those inmates only talking down to him versus doing what they did… Well.

Breaking from the comforting hold he has on Chris to sit up, he assuredly apprises the fingers in his own lap. "I-I want to tell you…everything."

Since he can't see his face, Chris isn't sure how to take that. Slowly reaching over to gingerly grasp pale fingers, wincing a bit when it incites a small flinch, he gets those orange eyes to meet his. "Are you sure?" he asks, and the positive response doesn't fill him with positivity. While Wesker _looks_ excruciatingly open and sincere, the problem lies right there in that eager expression. Sincerely willing to do anything that won't get him hurt or tossed aside, is closer to how Chris interprets it. "Wesker, I need you to know that I'm not gonna leave, get upset or hurt you if you choose not to."

"I know," Albert intently claims with a few small nods to match. Though he doesn't, not really. Which makes it a lie, which makes him tense and his hands tremble harder under Chris'. Deception is disobedience. "W- I mean I-I _want_ … to believe you." _I need to._ Because honesty is key here, he thinks. Real as his desire to trust Chris is right now, deceiving him will lead to punishment, and he's optimistic that he won't deliberately cause himself pain if he's honest. Chris is good. Honesty is supposed to be too. "I want to…tell you."

Deeply moved and fairly unsettled by Wesker's halting confession, Chris' mind blanks out and he can't stop staring at Wesker’s fragile glimmer of hope amongst so much nervous energy. Wondering and not even positive what about. Wesker _wants_ to trust him. Such a confounding notion in how unlikely he'd thought it would still be. But more importantly, so very _good_ , and Chris wants to give off the impression of the latter here, not one lacking in confidence in the wake of such a genuine display. If he wants to place so much trust in Chris, then Chris is going to prove himself willing as he's always been and support that courage.

At the same token, he has to wonder if Wesker would be willing to talk to an actual therapist. _One step at a time._

"Okay then," he sighs, feeling incredibly grateful, his fingers absently soothing Wesker's ever shaking ones. "You want a cup of that melted ice cream you call coffee first?" trying for humor, but Wesker just nods a bit with a quiet _'okay'_ and thanks him.

Inevitable as it is, Chris hopes to never get used to seeing him like this - trembling, meek, subdued, and so terribly frightened and desperate to please. Nothing left of the sneering man he knew. He can't even half-truth it and claim to only _almost_ miss the cutting insults and prickling arrogance when he downright prefers both. They aren't winning qualities, but they were _his_ dammit. Much as Chris wanted to kill him for them (among much worse things) over the years, all he has the urge to do with this Wesker is shield him from everything, and that…is unrealistic. And sounds weird as hell in his head sometimes, but that never lasts, not with every horror he's seen plastered to the forefront of his mind. The need is reasonable as hell. "I'll be back. Anything you wanna talk about then, we will, okay?" Another nod.

Coffee in hands, they sit in a few minutes of companionable silence at a small table and chair set Chris found serving no purpose in another room. Dining on a recliner or mattress was ridiculously unfitting and unnecessary when there was perfectly usable furniture just laying around, waiting to be shoved into Wesker's room. After taking a small sip, Wesker takes a breath and starts talking.

In just over an hour's time, Chris learns why Wesker has trouble with speaking and looking anyone in the eye. Why wearing clothes and especially touching the bed were so much more terrifying at first. Why he prefers not to do anything without either permission or being ordered to. All acts, crying included, were things he had been or could (and far more likely _would_ ) be punished for committing.

The difference between typical daily abuse and punishments lead by Sergei is explained in disturbing detail, and Chris can't help apologizing.

Wesker says he'd spent time locked in darkness when he first got to the prison, that he'd likely healed from the injuries sustained in the volcano there before being thrown to the prisoners. Likely is the best he can assume because he can't remember much of that period, had been under the impression maybe he'd died once the burning hadn't returned.

Hearing that worsens Chris' guilt and brings the sick feeling back. Beneath that lava, Wesker had been aware. Maybe not the entire time, but enough so that his mind suffered some kind of break. And there was no time given for it to heal, Chris realizes. In a certainly dreadful mental state, he'd been tossed by Sergei to inmates who immediately took to torturing and raping him. Incessantly. He can't find the words to apologize for that, isn't sure if they exist.

Chris struggles with an anger getting increasingly difficult to hide while listening to Wesker tell him that he doesn't readily accept food and water because he _knows_ his needs don’t matter. The only "sustenance" provided was when the prisoners used his mouth, and he seems to think it just as well. His self-worth is about as rock bottom as it can get, maybe lower. Silently shaking his head, Chris answers the questioning look to say that that isn't right, can't be farther from it. But Wesker only shrugs and lets him know what daring to think that way earned him in the prison, and Chris considerately offers a murmured reminder that he isn't there anymore and won't ever be again.

He’s alarmingly forthcoming. Succinct but eager to talk. Worryingly so. Enough so that Chris, at one point, feels need to remind him that the choice to share is his own. That he isn’t going to be hurt if he doesn’t want to talk.

Stuttering and stammering remain a prominent part of his speech, but the rushed impediments have nothing to do with not wanting to share. Persistent shaking and occasional tears aside, when he looks up to perhaps gauge Chris' reaction, he even seems…still plenty nervous, but also relieved. Chris can tell he expects to be judged or worse, but Chris does his best to maintain the outward calm that in turn preserves Wesker's fragile relief. Regardless of the subject matter, Chris has so far succeeded. In numerous instances, where Chris discovers that pressing on his wounded knuckles just right helps in curtailing his rage, Wesker shares more than he wants to know.

Like how he was forced to come until it hurt, how the inmates shoved things inside him to make it either hurt more or impossible, and how waking up is terrifying because he was fucked not only from the moment he woke, but up to the second he lost consciousness. And that was assuming it stopped at all because sometimes, he timidly admits, he woke up with someone already fucking him.

Chris reaches a whole new level of disturbed when he has to _convince_ Wesker that he was, in fact, being raped, and then that he _didn’t_ deserve it, no matter the things he had or hadn’t done. Chris stuns himself when, to dispute Wesker's claim that all the killing he did _makes_ him deserving, he comes up with death being a natural part of life while rape and torture are not. Nothing gets more of Chris’ delicate and determined attention than that because he can't let it go until Wesker understands. Wishes he could kill Sergei with renewed vigor when, at long last, the best he gets on the matter is a teary eyed, self-forced acquiescence.

“Even Spencer said I did, and he raised me.” His final, mind-blowing counter after deciding the way he agreed was disingenuous.

Everything about the Albert Wesker Umbrella inflicted on the world made sense after that. How he came to be that cold, detached man Chris couldn’t help but relentlessly admire when he’d been a S.T.A.R.S. captain. Not an ounce of friendliness, trust or fear for anyone or anything. He'd been larger than life, untouchable, and Chris had been awed. Beyond astonished to have somehow earned the man's favor enough to be considered his best. Such high praise (praise at all) from Wesker had made Chris feel like he'd been right exactly where he'd belonged.

Expression dramatically dropping away, Chris pulls back from his attentive lean, and Wesker reacts, tensing. Fear swallows up the innocent lightness of so tenuous a trust from his face. It's a regretful shame that Chris doesn’t notice that Wesker's unwittingly broached a topic he's _not_ eager to elaborate on. “You were raised…in Umbrella.” Just the sound of it inhumane, especially after what Wesker just said. “By _Spen_ -”

“I-I’m sorry, I don't- Is it…okay if- I'm sorry-” Wesker stumbling over his words, face to his lap of no doubt fussing hands, his light tremble building strength.

_Shit. Real fucking smooth, Redfield._ “Hey, no, _I'm_ sorry. Of course it’s okay.” Needing to make things better, Chris keeps his intense curiosity to himself and reaches across the table, feeling victory on Wesker’s behalf when an imperceptible flinch is all the motion engenders just before orange eyes look up to discern what they need to from Chris' face and trembling hands reach back with only the slightest hesitation. “Of _course_ it’s okay," Chris repeats. "Anything you’re not comfortable with, just say the word and we move on. Okay?” A small, tired nod settles it, or so Chris believes. What he's starting to trust in is a sickening likelihood that having choice viciously taken away is nothing new for Wesker.

The rest of the day passes in relative silence again, Wesker clearly having lost his enthusiasm for conversation after reaching that topic he couldn't expand on. Like he hadn't expected or considered he might come across such a subject. He falls asleep, wakes up needing pieced back together, and after getting what he needs from Chris, he's quiet again. Each time Chris looks down, there are fresh wet streaks shimmering under the soft glow of his eyes. Chris assures him that everything is okay between them, that he's done nothing wrong, but it only makes the silent tears stream faster, the shudder stronger. Wesker seems to believe the exact opposite, and nothing Chris does or says touches the obvious anguish it’s causing him.

Why couldn't he just tell Chris? The only person who hasn't denied or rejected him in any way ( _yet_ ), Albert has done both to. He wanted to tell him. _Wants_ to. Tried to imagine the words coming out where he would explain everything in as much detail as he could muster up, but he had a stupid meltdown and choked instead. And Chris says it's okay, comforts him now that he’s desperate for it again, and it's not. It’s not okay, and the fact that Chris isn’t correcting him in any way for being dishonest and disloyal is rather the opposite of relieving. He feels tethered to the moment of his error, chained right up against it so it can constantly burn him straight through to the bone.

“I’m…sorry.” Those scared and tired whispered words feel as useless as they ever did. Truly felt or not. Especially so if one considers the source. And despite the tender carding through his hair, he can’t help thinking how easily violent it could ( _should_ ) turn. How unresisting he would keep if Chris chose to just…force him. Around and onto the floor and-

“I… _want_ to tell you,” fingers suddenly clutching harder at Chris’ shirt. Afraid he’s going to lose this in spite of Chris' earlier assurance that the choice to share was to his own discretion. But Albert had told Chris he'd wanted to tell him, and then went back on his word. He lied. “Everything. I-I _should_ ,” the whisper of his voice breaking. “You’ve n-not once denied…or…or rejected me, a-and I-“

“Don’t owe me a thing," a soft, utterly confusing interruption. "I want you to know that I'm proud of you. You impress me… Always have. You always make me want to do better. If you still feel like I expect _anything_ from you, then…I just need to do better.”

None of it makes sense, but the way Chris says it, it at least sounds true, and it's so confusing. _Ashamed_ and _disgusted_ are the words he's sure Chris meant, but they're not the ones he used. He just doesn't want this to change and doesn't miss being hurt, and every time things make so little sense, it seems like a shove in that terrifying direction, and now he's going to start crying again, and he's so damn sure Chris meant ashamed and disgusted. "Why can't I understand?" he forces past his fresh break. Stupid tears, stupid, stupid tears. _'Get rid of those stupid tears.'_

But for all the distressing confusion Chris puts him through, he's not once made him feel anything close to stupid. Even now, when it would be easiest, he's instead trying to hush him with careful sounds and touches. Not telling him the truth - he's worthless and can't do a thing right without a heavy-handed approach. There's no non-existent love lost for Sergei, but he'd kept things sort of the same for Albert, following Spencer's M.O. and adding from there.

Spencer, who Albert can't even talk about.

Crying himself to sleep, he can't figure out why anything is the way it is or where he's headed, but his grip on Chris is strong, and he doesn't want to let go. Beneath the confusing weight Chris blankets over him, he's never felt safer, he thinks. Knows he's never trusted anyone more, not in his whole life.

There's iron in the air. Opening his eyes, he sees red. So much red, and he worries he's being hurt again, waking from being beaten to many inches beyond his consciousness, but he feels no pain. But there's so much blood, raising his hands there's blood covering the one. He feels the familiar panic building in his chest, in his gut, in his mind, wide eyes sailing over the room until they land on the source, and he feels every part of himself that counts for anything sink. "Chris!" Unconscious and bleeding from a… _gaping wound_ in his gut. Shaking him desperately, tremulously checking for a pulse, Albert weeps in knowing. Knows he's responsible. Knows he's a monster. He's always been.

"…no, no, no, no, no, no…"

There's nothing good left for him. Nothing good ever meant to be his. He's known. The whole time. Tried so very hard to warn Chris, and now he's killed him, and the only viable option for Albert is to be sent back where he belongs. Back to Sergei. Or worse. It has to be worse. What he deserves is something so much worse.

On his knees, gradually breaking clean from reality, there's one choice Albert's always had since the pain ended. True agony the only sensation that can pull him from a full shutdown. When that agony returns, he'll be back where he belongs.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Chris? Oh, thank South fuckin’ African genius."_

_Jill?_ An irritated, raspy sound all his attempt to speak creates before he's swallowing back the urge to cough; coughs anyways, and the small force _hurts_ , makes him groan past the sandiness in his throat.

"Don't freak out, your throat's just a little bone dry. Open up. Ice."

Over the next several minutes, Jill feeds him ice chips and unloads the most dramatic rundown of events he's ever heard. By the time she finishes, if not for the warning pain in his gut when he shifts his weight, he'd be on his feet.

One week ago, Wesker attacked him while under the influence of one of his myriad horrific memories. Jill made it in the nick of time to save Chris, and she's only partially ashamed to admit that she knows the details of what happened and was able to show up before he could kick it because she'd snuck a tiny cam under the counter of the console desk almost two weeks ago. Chris hadn't felt it would be a good idea for her to stop by for the third time in a row, so she did anyway, and planted the damned thing while he was with Wesker and none the wiser. She never offered to drop by again, and Chris never asked.

"I hated doing it, but it was the only way I could breathe easy. I couldn't stop thinking about what we saw," she says, a tad defensively, "which means I couldn't stop thinking about _you_. I was fucking worried," she explains herself, making him feel guilty, but then she closes off. "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have cozied up to the idea of being watched, even by me." _Shit._ "You were…so caught up in doing things all on your own." He hadn't noticed, but she's right, and he can't even recall the last time he saw her. Thinks it wasn't so long after she made her worry known. "Figured I'd do my part, take care of my sometimes stupid partner who's never kept me so out of the loop before. So I'm sorr-"

"I'm sorry, Jill," he rasps. "You're right. The cam was a good idea I wouldn't have agreed to. Sorry I shut you out, and thank you." And that brings her out from behind her stony wall of defense.

"You had a ‘you’re welcome’ coming with or without the thanks,” said with an amused smirk. “It’s better with it. And don't go thinking I'm the only one who came through for you. The way you just… _weren't healing_ , I remembered what you told me about Josh."

Six days prior, Shaun and another from his team arrived to lend emergency hands, plying him with their treatments to promote healing on a deep, heading toward fatal, stomach wound. Having interrupted a heavy workload back home, they'd stayed just until Chris stabilized and said their goodbyes, leaving him in the care of the BSAA's most senior surgeon on site. He owes the men a massive thanks, to be sure, but Jill has so much more to tell.

Once the BSAA deal was broken, there was nothing she could do for Wesker. She reasoned, argued, threatened, even punched _"one douche bag"_ , but there was an anti-BOW weapons project with Wesker's name on it, and not one foot dragged to see him made part of it. The day he attacked Chris, the arrangements began, and a catatonic-like Wesker was whisked away the following one.

Chris just knows every effort he made to help Wesker is undone. No one would show him an ounce of mercy knowing who he was. His history as a bio terrorist coupled now with being an unkillable BOW who'd attacked an agent? The _only_ positive news is that the project is being housed here, on an underground level. Jill says no one gets in without clearance. And no one who isn't an active part of the project has that, and the six who do have it rarely come up for air. But the broken arrangement won't be a problem for much longer.

"Chris, my tech buddy started in on Sergei’s computer last night. This morning he found it. A second, pretty damn small hard drive taped to the inside," she rushes to tell him. "It's loaded with files. Mainly videos no one in their right mind could ever actually _want_ to watch. One folder is all old Umbrella files, on something called Project Wesker. They stole kids, Chris," her expression grave. "Fifteen five-year-olds according to the notes, but there’s only one child Sergei kept the documentation of. Albert Wesker," she chokes out. "Lucky number thirteen," she says, a grim smile almost playing on her lips.

"I know," Chris quietly admits. "He told me. Spencer raised him."

"No, Chris, he _abused_ -" which he already knows "-and _conditioned_ him. The children were injected with that Progenitor shit. Severe reactions killed most of them within the first few years, others held on and died from later injections, but not our Wesker. After treatment, he kept building tolerance. His vision suffered, but all his other senses heightened, and he always got better. Always stronger; started healing faster," she says, her tone hard and angry throughout. "Those sick motherfuckers didn't even realize what they'd done to him, Chris," she says, a nervous sound of mirthless laughter following. He can tell she's enraged and hurt, and Chris has never seen her war with so many elevated emotions before as she tells him they thought the project a failure; that the changes they'd observed were all they'd "gifted" him with.

All the children permanently lost to death, killing him didn't cross their minds, but Tyrant took care of that and they all know the rest. "Anyway, once that old bastard realized he had at least one to work with, Spencer didn't waste time upping the conditioning. He and everyone on that project **killed** everything alive in that little boy, Chris," staring into nothing, her voice muting out, betraying so much hurt, sympathy, fury and disgust. "Made him stop believing he even needed help after so long. No one gave a single, solitary shit about him. He never had a chance. He was _good_ , Chris," like she's trying to convince, but Chris can't tell who. She takes a breath, reels it all in and continues in a deeper, measured tone. "The silver lining is that it fucking matters. Wesker _can't_ be held responsible now we have proof that he _isn't_."

And he isn't going to be. Jill's already done the work to see to it. A video call with Clive O'Brian has it all set in motion, _and_ kept the more sensitive material from needing to be sent anywhere. Even if Wesker's to remain labelled as a criminal, the only way possible is if it's specified in _'bold-fucking-face letters'_ as involuntary. The fact that he was a victim of Umbrella will be made loud and clear. The only thing in the way now is time. While O'Brian said he'd make a call to the project team leader and try to speed things along, the final say in putting an early end to the testing or waiting for the paperwork to come in is up to said leader.

"But time can _suck it_ , and so can the team leader. Wesker's gone through enough shit his entire fucking _life_ time, and that jerk hasn't released him yet. I'm gonna lift a keycard off one of those cleared assholes and tranq the whole fucking team if I have to."

It's the last thing he needed to hear. The one thing that shoves his condition on the back burner of a stove he doesn't even own, and after Jill departs to get the discovered material to him however she can, he wants to get up.

But he utterly fails to so much as shift his weight in attempting to sit up straighter. "Fuck… I need painkillers," he grits out the moment his doctor walks in to check on him. He demands she pump him full of whatever will get him on his feet the fastest, but the surgeon is an old friend, and she is all too well versed in his ways.

"Listen, Patient Redfield," Dr. Anders' affectionately humored name for him. "You're lucky you have innovative genius friends in high places _and_ the miracle of a functioning stomach at all right now. What you _need_ is bed rest. Bed. _Rest_."

"What I _need_ …is to be able to get off my ass, doc. It's been- a _week_ ," struggling just to complain, because good gracious just that hurts, "and my…friend- he needs my help, as of… _six_ goddamn days ago. If you can either…reverse time or give me the _goddamn_ painkillers, you'd be doing me a real solid. _Please_ , doc."

"Honey, if I could meddle with time, I'd never leave the sixties. I'm not helping you off your rump," she informs him with a testy look. “Now, I'm sorry about your friend, but _you_ are right where _you_ need to be from a _doctor’s_ standpoint, and right now, my dear, that’s what I am to you.”

"They're hurting him, doc," he pleads. "He's already a mess."

"Don't I know it, and I sympathize. I saw the poor thing when they stole him away with Jill on their tail. A right mess, that boy.” She sighs, saying, “But I had you to lose hair over, and I had to forget all that,” she tells him. “Jill found you nearly dead, hun."

Wincing in sympathy for his partner, he knows, "That was my…own damn fault…"

"Mmm," she hums in sad understanding, "I don't doubt it. You know how I used to be a psychiatrist for a few years?" He'd definitely forgotten, and she can definitely tell, giving his unspoken _uhhh_ a narrowed look of fleeting disapproval. "Point is, I still see a couple of clients. Special cases.” Then she pauses, seeming to contemplate saying more. “Now don’t you dare think less of her, but Jill let me in on the worst of what your friend's been through because, unlike _some people_ , she hasn’t forgotten my credentials.” He just offers a tight-lipped, guilt ridden smile. “That he’s responding to you at all is a miracle, hun. When he's ready, you send him my way. It's plain as the nose on your face he’s lost. As a favor to my worst patient ever," she says with a fond, easy half smile, "I'll help him find worth in himself again. Or for once." It's the best offer he's heard in a long time.

"Thank you," he can't help that his voice cracks, that he can hardly keep it from breaking again. "Doc, really, thank you. So much. You have… _no idea_ how much that means."

"Oh, but I do, and it's no problem. He doesn’t deserve to walk around hating and blaming himself for choosing to survive or for what cruelties were forced on him," she says. “He needs to relearn affection.” Then lofting her brows with a look of ease, "Those lovely eyes won’t take any time at all getting familiar with,” she says with fondness. “They remind me of my Toddy." Uhh…? "He was my cat,” she answers Chris’ questioning brow, making the other join it.

"You named your cat after an alcoholic drink."

She hums in affirmation. “And my Toddy? He was a handsome boy _too_ ," she adds, putting an incredulous frown of confusion on Chris' face. She just smiles at him, rolling her eyes a bit as she walks out.

It almost seems audacious, bordering on blasphemous and criminal, to even notice Wesker as attractive, and Chris never had. _Before_. Hooo boy…

“Thanks, doc,” he deadpans. _Damnit, doc._

"Mhm," he hears from out in the hall.

Jill returns with a laptop in tow. “Oh, yeah…” She lastly remembers to tell him that the real security footage from the prison is on the hard drive too. "After making myself sit through the Umbrella shit, I couldn't watch much of this trash after Wesker was brought in," she finishes, her entire furious expression quivering again with so much disgust. "Can't say I recommend you do either, but every last fucked up detail is on here," Jill says, placing the laptop on the overbed table. "I'm gonna go be anywhere else for a while. Keeping an eye out for whoever's clearance I'll be borrowing."

Chris can't stomach much of the footage either, but he soldiers through most of it and learns every sordid detail of what made Wesker the way he is.

Why he thinks so little of his own most basic human needs hasn’t much at all to do with Sergei. It was all drilled into his head when he was just a boy. After proving resilient, Spencer added rape to Wesker's punishments for failure. Began filling his vulnerable mind with threats that it would be all he'd be good for if he failed to succeed in Spencer's goal for him. If he failed to bring about a new breed of humans, Spencer instilled belief in him that all the world would ever see him as was a worthless whore. And when Wesker cried, resisted or apologized, Spencer called it _foreplay_ ; called Wesker - a _child_! - a _tease_ and _stubborn_ when he persisted in struggling away, and Chris hears a subtle cracking not coming from the laptop.

Absently relaxing his death grip on the overbed table, he dully takes notice of how hard he’s shaking, of the cool tears marking his face, the pressure in his head. And has to physically keep himself from sending the laptop careening into a wall.

He instead elects to watch the bi-weekly interviews conducted by other personnel, thinking _maybe_ they’ll at least be a _little_ less enraging. But nothing calming exists in these files.

He learns of Dr. Marcus’ role, and that saps the need for violence right out of him and makes him want to weep for an eternity. And _then_ beat the absolute shit out of something like a ( _stasis_ ) tank. Or Sergei. How lucky both Marcus and Spencer are to already be dead and gone.

Marcus was a cold source of gentle words of praise. When a devastated Wesker once mistook it for care, Marcus was quick to correct him as he cried and sought comfort in arms that limply refused him and ultimately pushed him away. “You do not require comfort or love, Albert. The weak thrive on those, and you are not weak. I only inform you as I do so that you know you’re on the right path and remain there. This weakness you’re exhibiting is beneath you.”

A thin sound escapes Chris’ throat for the way Wesker, in so much anguish, struggles with that information after Marcus leaves. The hopeless fear and utter desperation that watches that son of a bitch walk out. The devastated confusion afterward. The way he wraps his arms tightly around himself and tries to deal with what he'd been told. Alone.

Chris would _kill_ \- every last rotten soul in that facility - to go to that child, to take him straight out of that hell and show him love and care, and do any goddamn thing just to see him fucking _smile_. Eventually Wesker does stop crying, and after he wipes his too worn face clean and takes a pair of deep and ragged breaths, he leaves the room, his head down the entire way.

Little by little, all hope and life leave those pale blue eyes. Week by week, month by month, the open terror and shame decrease more and more until all that's left on that ruined boy’s face is a hateful frown or cold indifference. Like he'd pushed every part that felt and became traumatized far down where it'd never be found again, possibly not even by himself. A severe nervousness makes him twitch and affects his put upon expression when Spencer decides to do the interviews himself.

In a few years, all he has is a blank look for everyone and every circumstance, and even that anxiety around Spencer vanishes. Having his fingers, hands, or any part struck by a favored conductor's baton in Spencer's cruel fist, Wesker learns to go deep in his head to someplace certain levels of pain can't reach him. A place he silently but tearfully yo-yo's in and out of when Spencer goes too far, bloodying him. It altogether ceases to exist when he knows he's going to be raped.

It's no wonder Wesker can't understand kindness or care, or why he always expects to be hurt when he makes a mistake and can't even understand being forgiven. Why receipt of any of them is incomprehensible. All the times he'd said he couldn't understand. Chris feels the familiar burn of his sinuses.

It makes sense that he'd always been so cold, detached and untrusting. That he'd always looked down on displays of feelings and emotions. Survival and performing as a tool for destruction were it for him, since day one as far as Wesker is aware of. According to the notes, Spencer had, in some unspecified way and within the first month, seen that all the children’s minds were wiped to forget where they came from. They all believed themselves orphans being given a chance at earning their place into a _"very special family"_. Chris could throw up.

Chris is having a hard time thinking at all past his emotions thanks to the pulsing red behind his throbbing eyes he can't help but keep shut to collect himself. With an insistent need to see Wesker screaming for attention in the mess of his brain, he miserably recalls the prison files.

Sifting through the videos, his first sight of Josh comes as a surprise; he'd forgotten the man had been there at all. Honestly hasn't even thought of Sheva in the longest time, and guilt should probably be trying to work its way in somewhere, but a voice assures him Sheva would forgive him and understand the importance of what he's doing. Seeing Josh join the brutes, he tenses in fear on his behalf. But though the occasional violence carries on, nothing happens to him. Perhaps the ruthless inmates were told he was off limits.

Nothing noteworthy occurs until Wesker is thrown in, and somehow every video after that happens is worse than even the Umbrella ones. Which really shouldn't be possible.

Spencer had to limit what he did. The worst of his maltreatment wasn't close to being a daily thing, but the all day every day abuse dished out in the prison proves unbounded. So far beyond pointless and cruel that, where he'd only suspected it before, it now becomes crystal clear the inmates are deranged. That they obviously get their pleasure from committing acts of brutality. Each one violently rapes him, but still they linger to torture and mutilate him in other ways, or watch and egg others on as they do. Really, it shouldn't even be surprising. Chris had seen so many others die from the same abuse on the older footage. The most vile were all that had remained, and that was the group of twisted minds Sergei left a naked and mentally damaged Wesker to. A forever reviving, easy prey gifted to caged, rabid beasts with a nigh on insatiable bloodlust.

Chris watches Josh go to him - the first time showing unsuccessful when the inmates interrupt it to drag Wesker away. The second time, it looks like he gets through for a few minutes. When that’s interrupted, Josh tries to stand up for Wesker, and pays for it. If Chris hadn't already seen Josh alive since all this… _Fuck._ Without Shaun and his team, Josh would have paid with his life.

At the fast forwarded speed he has the footage playing, Chris does see every horrible thing Wesker told him about. And more. So much more. Wesker might not even remember much of it, considering the perpetually horrible state he'd been kept in. On a few separate occasions, he fights back. Here and there, he even manages to kill one or two inmates upon being forced awake, but he's always overpowered, never anywhere near full health. Broken necks mostly, but Chris sees the eviscerating gut punch more than once too, and his own clenches in painful remembrance. A lesser version of that move was what landed Chris in hospital.

Sergei himself rarely interacts with or lays a hand on Wesker initially, but he torments and makes him scream the worst when he does. Makes him wail pleading sounds the first time he injects him, possible words that may or may not make much sense past a surely shattered jaw. From what the mic's picked up, Chris can't actually tell. Given time, or maybe it's the clone, Sergei clearly begins to find enjoyment in breaking him as much as Spencer did. Still, he rarely does more than strike him. The inmates do the dirty work while he stands by, presumably barking orders. The mics on the cams aren’t great, but they had little issue picking up Wesker’s piercing screams.

Without ever realizing how ready to drop off he was, Chris passes out, wholly sapped after watching the inmates carry an unconscious Wesker off into the showers for the umpteenth time. When he jerks awake, it's to the memory pain and shock of the attack that got him here. Wesker had been so wild eyed and frantic, thinking he was defending himself from an attack, and Chris hadn’t known what the hell to do. One step to back away set Wesker to lunge at him, and that was that. Hearing the now familiar screams on the laptop snaps him out of his thoughts, and he closes the video, newly pissed.

Unsuccessful at calming down, all that's invading his mind is the bullshit about time being in the way. Wesker is suffering _again_ because employees of the company Chris imagined would do so much _good_ are choosing not to release him. Even after learning he's been cleared of all charges. Knowing he's fucking _innocent_. He inwardly rages when it dawns on him that Wesker probably believes he'd killed him. Or that Chris is having him punished for what he'd done. It's too much, too overwhelming to consider while he can do nothing about it.

He dials Jill. "Any luck with that keycard?"

"So glad you asked."

======================

"Shoot him again."

_No, no, please don't, please don't, please-_

Albert had been prised from the ether screaming in agony. Eyes springing wide open, he'd expected that blinding brightness from either when he'd been immersed in lava or when Sergei injected him. It felt like he'd been suffering both in tandem, and he'd screamed - vision brightened by agony revealing he was locked onto a table in a lab and being shot by a man in a white coat, others watching behind glass - until he knew no more. Mind muddied by so much pain, all he could think was that he was dying. He should've known expecting to remain that way, even if he was, was too good to be true.

Waking up to an escalating, agonizing burn spreading in his legs, his upper limbs take shots and then his torso takes- he can't even tell how many more past the agony, and he's shrieking and soon blacking out again. He wakes up to the same process. It's like Sergei's dosed him to increase his pain and is submerging him part by part back into the magma. Sensation wise, it's so much worse than any of the abuses he's gone through. One brilliantly punishing shot after the next until the searing points spread their agony to somewhere far beyond the lines of his frame, and then more shots. He's never screamed so much in his life.

It gets worse when the white coats move on from bullets to explosives. Grenades first, then miniature launchers that tear into him with less precision. Unlike the bullets, when he’s hit with these, his clothes are left in tatters.

Too weak and in pain to do more than shiver, twitch and absently lose tears in silent anguish, he's released from the restraints. The remnants of his clothes are removed and he's turned around on the table and locked in again. To be used, he's sure. Terror adding to his misery, he tries struggling with a strength he doesn't have and begging with remnants of his voice, the rasp of a reiterated _"no"_ clear enough. But no one touches him after he's restrained, and the excruciating explosions continue along his spine until he's out again. Maybe being fucked would have been better.

The few instances he hears them speaking on his side of the glass, they refer to him as _'the B.O.W.'_ or _'the subject'_. Fitting and impersonal enough, he thinks when he can. Better than rat, slut or whore, not to mention any of the choice adjectives that preceded those names.

No one tells him a thing, but he knows why he's here. This is his punishment for killing Chris. His most deserved one yet. The first he'd like to believe he truly wants.

All his energy frittered away on screaming, he's sure they're killing him each time. Positive they're bringing him back with small doses of PG67A/W because Sergei did that too, and he's keen on the sensation. When his body revives, heals, and he wakes up scared, naked and secured to the tilting table, all he gets are clinical once overs and lingering derisive glances. Indifference and hate. A clean mix of Umbrella and the prison.

The more times he wakes up, the lesser time it takes before he's out again. The potency of whatever they're firing at him is getting stronger. Though, he could simply be imagining things.

Eventually his memory becomes unreliable, and he starts forgetting where he is and why upon waking. Always remembers that he needs to suffer, but while feeling death claw at him for the umpteenth time, he as usual concludes that he doesn't want to. No matter the cruel facts he was raised on pushing for his adherence to them. No matter the harsh memory of being made to say he did.

Then he remembers that Chris is gone, and why, and that mentally breaks him down better than any conditioning ever will. Makes him want to want every bit of agony and more. Yet he shakes his head in misery each time he wakes to a new session, never verbally begging but always a few shots away from tearfully shrieking. For what he did to get here, he hates himself more than he'd thought possible. With infinitely greater passion than these white coats or anyone else ever can.

======================

Jill Valentine does her thing like only she can. She expertly lures the agent back to the room Chris and Wesker were staying in, with the promise of a highly unique BOW she had locked up, and that the project's testing could definitely benefit from. Guards no longer stationed outside the empty wing, it was easy work for her to knock the man out the moment they passed through the doors. She shackled him to the lab bed and that was that.

"He never suspected a thing."

Chris demands to accompany her, but she's more adamant in denying him for better reasons than he has to argue with. It's true that Wesker won't trust anyone who isn’t Chris, but if shit goes sideways, and Chris gets hurt again… She gives him an expectant look. Expectant of nothing but agreement because they both know there’s no good argument against that. He'd already been on thin ice surviving the wound that still needs to heal. But he keeps silent and that’s enough to annoy her into driving the nail of logic in deeper.

"How the hell do you think either I _or_ Wesker will feel if something really shitty happens to you _again_ , huh? Me for not preventing you from being stupid - like I'm always gonna do, whether you like it or not - and him blaming himself for it? Don't make me call Dr. Anders in here to fuckin' babysit you," she warns. But then her tone turns gentle. "I know you, Chris. I know you've found some idiotic way to blame yourself for Wesker, because that's classic you. But _trust me_. Trust your partner to get Wesker out of there." Then, just as softly, an assuring hand on his forearm, “Move from that bed and I’ll tranq you myself.”

“ _Jill_.”

“ _Chris_.”

He has to laugh. “Those scientists won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Oh, they'll know," she corrects. "It'll be the last thing any that get in my way knows," a definite promise. "Only five more to go.”

“Thanks, Jill.”

“My pleasure.”

======================

Out of nowhere things change. Instead of just letting him scream and cry and very likely die, the white coat shooting him now urgently demands he say which of two consecutive shots at a time causes him greater pain. As if he can ever hope to tell. There's just no practicable way, impossible to differentiate between the excruciating pain of one and the next. Albert _hopes_ he's repeating that he doesn't know past the congested thickness of his tears and the stuttering of his lungs, but he's more than likely failing to because it doesn’t end, and _he can't fucking tell_! Can't the man see without being fucking told that every fucking shot feels like it's killing each part of him it hits? Then he remembers that this is punishment.

He just hopes to be allowed a moment - just _one moment_ \- to breathe or think or do anything that's not scream or cry so exhaustingly, effectively losing his mind while this man shoots and impatiently pushes him for answers.

When Albert finally does stir to no pain, the phantom ones don't let him notice. He wakes in a violent fashion, already frantically whimpering and whining "I don't know", continuing right from where he'd left off, in agony and expectation of more. Tormented eyes wildly taking in the room without truly seeing before they land on the boots of what's very likely another white coat waiting to pump him with ammo. But there's a steady female voice waiting for him when the white noise of extreme panic very slowly ebbs away to something more bearable for his senses. When the boots stop blurring with the ferocity of his own tension and trembling.

Recognizing the voice, he cuts off a sharp inward gasp and stills completely but for his saucered eyes flicking from boot to boot. He immediately thinks of Chris. Of what he'd done to him. Good Chris - her partner and dear friend. Worthless Albert - her despised enemy who'd killed her dear partner and imprisoned her mind for three years. With the tension returned and his hearing muffled, he can’t comprehend what she's strangely cooing at him, and he locks his anguished gaze up onto one he's almost shocked to think…maybe matches his own?

If she's anywhere near as miserable as he is, it's only because he made it so.

But even without a well-earned abhorrence burning in her stare, he _feels_ it all the same and completely falls apart. The soul shattering pain and aching loss of what he did bombarding him, razing every inch, inside and out, and, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-" words lost to the force of his weeping.

Touches that remind him of Chris' gently card through his hair, and he knows all they can ever be is from memory, and that breaks him impossibly more. Drowning in misery and barely able to breathe, he damns his inability to stop breathing for good.

When it's quiet he finds himself released from the table, Jill handing him clothes. He doesn't recall putting them on, but he must have because he’s wearing them when she tells him something he'll never believe: that he's going to be alright.

He doesn't listen to more lies. Lets the sounds wash out, keeps his head down and considers falling back into the ether again. Isn't completely sure why the furthest he gets is down to a sort of drunken state. There's nothing good or safe waiting on or wanting him anywhere. Nothing to hang around for. He'd destroy any of those anyway. Whether he’s being hurt or given comfort, he winds up suffering in spades, and spreading it around like a disease. The simple fact is there's no ideal place for him.

Albert simply doesn't care what happens and is just so depleted of everything. So very finished with this world and existing and _doing things_ that the moment he seems to have appeared back in the room he'd shared with Chris - and killed him in - he curls up in the nearest corner and falls asleep. Hopeful he'll never wake up again.

He wakes up alone. Terrified, screaming, crying. Pleading for help that’s usually answered in this room. It never comes and he quickly remembers why. Falling back asleep with that knowledge running through his head, he dreams of suffering all too familiar punishments. Of being beaten, broken, raped, tortured, repeatedly shot, of burning in lava. All feature Chris looking on with total indifference as Albert reaches for him, screaming and begging and apologizing. Denied, rejected, unworthy and, most of all, uncared for. The pain of every abuse is overshadowed by Chris' blatant dismissal. Even the cold, dark fingers of death can't compete with the way Chris turning away kills him.

He wakes openly weeping, and _tries_ to remember the way it felt to be cared for when Chris was there. He’d had no way to be sure, no reference points in his memory to help him ascertain how right or wrong he might be, but had been curious if _maybe_ it was what being loved felt like. But perhaps all it’d been was pity, and now it makes no difference. It should be but another drop in the bucket of self-inflicted pain, but this drop refuses to join and blend in with the rest. It's loss of an attachment, and that's not something he has experience with.

Attachments were for the weak, he'd been taught. Comfort and love detrimental to his strength and success. But now he isn't even sure what they are or feel like, and he's not stronger for it. He's alone and confused, suspicious of anything that feels like kindness. Everyone in Umbrella refused him, Marcus most memorably. Those deceptively gentle words he'd so casually obliterated him with when Albert was already so broken. Chris hadn't done that, but Albert can't tell why or if it was real. It _felt_ real. But so had power, confidence and purpose. He's become aware that lies can feel like truth too. Especially when one _needs_ them to be.

He ends up curled up tight in the recliner, sniffling. Pressing and snuggling hard into Chris’s comforting scent, desperate for the sensation of whatever it was - care, love, pity, truth, lies - that came with it.

Memories haunt his dreams and he slams awake panicking, not even knowing which terrifying moment caused it. Feeling plush material under him, he hits the floor hard, scrambles away and curls up. No one tells him not to. However, when his bladder presses for attention, he forces himself into the washroom. He notices water and food on the table when he comes out, but he has no use for either. It's easier to do nothing, less taxing to pretend he doesn't exist. More honest to himself as he truly feels like nothing and doesn’t want to exist.

======================

Chris takes care of himself. For the first time in his life, he does as his doctor instructs and gets stronger each day as a result. He doesn't run off to see Wesker when Dr. Anders tells him to wait until he can function properly. It's true that even a hug from Wesker can be painful. Truer yet that being told that following strict orders for not even a week will be "miraculously more than enough" is plenty motivation alone. By then, Dr. Anders says he should even be able to take a punch without his wound ending up in shambles. He owes Shaun outrageously impossible things for that. Sitting around so much allows him to go over the files and give them the appropriate attention that's unfortunately necessary.

"He still hasn't touched food or water." Jill's update by the fourth day. "But he's at least keeping up with bathroom habits." Meaning he's not marinating in his urine again. A plus, since there isn't anyone making sure _he's_ taking care of himself. Jill says she talks to him each time she leaves him a meal, but he doesn't respond. Whether he's aware she's there or not is anyone's guess. She can't tell and won't try touching him. "I tell him you're as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever every time I visit, but he just tunes me out. I think he thinks he killed you."

"All more reason for me to go see him. Doc here says I'm-"

"Healthy as an ox with a bad bruise," Dr. Anders interrupts to confirm. "And stubborn as a human being. Nearly perfect model of our species," she says turning around to grab something off the side table. "I have a brace for your stomach anyway. You keep that thing on while you're with him, and _no more staying in the room when he's asleep_."


	7. Chapter 7

With new memories of agony to influence his dreams, Albert wakes to those particular nightmares in one of two ways. There’s the scrambling away to curl up and hide in a panic, or he wakes about as enraged as scared, _Kill him! Kill them all!_ running through his mind as he zips through the impatient man demanding answers from him. Shouting a tear and curse ridden desperate fury at his torturers, striking and slamming repeatedly past their dissolving shapes and into surfaces that did not give the way his body did. The pain and scent of blood powerful inciters to greater violence.

The table and chairs most recently paid for how that white coat badgered him, smashed unrecognizable by the time the red hue leaves his vision.

How overcome by familiar desires he’d wound up by the end of his time with the lot of white coats. To pulverize them. Pound them into the floor, the glass, the walls, each other. Rend them apart piece by insane piece until nothing distinguishable as human was left.

Convinced he’d dealt that built-up rage to people in charge, he’d usually cover up in fearful regret afterward, envisioning some form of retaliation - that guard from the prison yard in his ear, admonishing him for supposedly killing a guard, kicking him in his genitals. The inmates were fair game; authority figures off limits.

Anger's bittersweet return is no heralding factor for an end to his dominant nightmares, but each point he finds himself consciously fighting back, it feels like…the smallest reprieve. Which leads to overwhelming wrongness and intense self-hatred, and ultimately fear.

His anger was never an aid but a blinder. Only objects have paid for it so far, but what about when that changes? What more destruction might he mete out while he's unstable? What would be done with him? A new punishment makes the most sense, and maybe it'll be just the right one so that he's lost to it forever. A few choice nightmares on their own have run him so deep into proverbial ground, he hasn't a clue how he accomplishes finding his way back from them.

Albert’s unconscious mind, much to his utmost dread, had grown more inventive, began merging his most horrific memories and false perceptions, trapping him in nightmares of the most inconceivably deranged scenarios. Rare as the sadistic horrors are, the content leaves quite the lasting impression. On three separate occasions, he wakes so petrified he can’t even scream or speak. Wants to remain awake for an eternity, but all efforts toward that are useless with how quickly the misery of conscious dwelling sucks the energy clean out of him.

~~~

_The prisoners are all around him. If he’s foolish enough to lift his head, there’s a clear gap up ahead. That is so Sergei can look on unimpeded. Keeping his anguished expression down and to the side, he stares with difficulty at bloody smears on the floor around him, at countless pairs of shoes. Purposely avoids looking at his knees because of the pair between them, forcing his apart. And because of the unwanted, bouncing humiliation between his hips._

_In the center of the prison, fingers digging into his thighs, Albert is knelt and being used._

_"It is as I've always said, no? A worthless rat." And he knows he is. Can't put a finger on how his poor impression of himself came to be so advanced, but it is and he knows it - he is as inferior as it gets, even the rats Sergei likens him to of higher status._

_"I should have noticed earlier." So shocked at that voice, he can't help looking up to confirm it is indeed Chris. Standing lax beside Sergei. Watching him be raped too, a severely aggrieved frown marring his face with an expression that makes hurt and humiliation take to Albert like liquid to a sponge._

_Poorly covering his erection with a trembling, bloody hand, the inmate behind him pulls it away, wrenches the arm behind his back to hold it painfully there as shame colors his downcast focus._ No..no… _"Should never have wasted my time with him."_ Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry… _he wants to say, but his mortified regard flicks toward Sergei and he knows better._

_"Still needs to be told to keep those abominations averted." He looks away, keeps his face tilted toward the floor, but it's too late. It's always too late, even when he doesn't look. "I believe he enjoys the attentions my punishments provide."_

_"Chris, please-" he whimpers, trying not to shatter so thoroughly, to keep his voice steady under violent thrusts as another takes Albert's available hand in his and forces him to harshly stroke himself, but Sergei cuts him off._

_"Shut up, Wesker."_

_"Please_ what _?" Chris practically snaps, tone loaded with disdain while Albert pants in a fashion worthy of it. "I tried with you, but kindness and care weren’t good enough." And Albert starts to shake his head because they were, they_ were _enough. "Honestly, Wesker, what the hell did you think it was? What's wrong with you?”_

 _He was stupid, he_ is _stupid and blind and worthless, and pathetic now for his crying, whining and broken moans. “Answer him, rat.”_

_“Pity,” he squeaks out through so much constriction and laboring breaths, “I thought- pity. I’m s-“_

_Chris spits out a derisive sound, ends his trying words. “Sorry, right?” he scoffs. “Of course you expect pity. Look how goddamn pitiful you are.” He nods, barely shakes his head, weeping and wishing Chris would stop. Stop being like them. Help him. Whatever he'd done to earn his hate, he hadn't meant it. According to Chris, that mattered. “You don’t have to worry about me pitying you anymore. I can’t give a shit about what happens to you. You saw to that."_

_Ridiculously enough, all he wants is to apologize again. Non-stop; forever, because he’s so fucking sorry for being the cause of that. He'd done something unforgivable, always suspected he would, and now he had. But what exactly it was, he cannot recall._

_"You want to fuck him?" Sergei’s question puts a horrified stutter in his sobs, drains trace amounts of the blood from his face, almost makes him look up, but he screws his eyes shut in anguish instead and suddenly comes with a ragged cry that tapers off into little squeals when the men don’t stop._ Please don't, please no, not you, please not you-

 _"That an insult? He's disgusting, not even human." And Albert's cheeks burn with crimson again, cool tears streaming in humiliated relief, body rapidly jumping with his violator’s thrusts while Sergei chuckles with dark humor. "Since he_ obviously _likes it so much, you better do your worst, Colonel," Chris suggests in an impassive tone as Albert shudders, barely able to catch his breath or keep quiet. "Same as he does."_

 _Sergei stalks over, grips his chin, readied syringe in his other hand, "We will make him regret it, won't we?"_ Please, please, please-

_Trying to abide by Sergei's rules through the overwhelming agony, he screams with everything he has, feeling each separate abuse to its fullest. Sergei rapes him with his blade and leaves him to the inmates. They use his mouth, beat him, violate him with absolutely anything large enough to tear him more and ground their heels into his genitals once they have him supine. Burns, cuts, insertions, snaps, breaks, and he never passes out._

_Impossibly coherent, he hears Sergei ask Chris if he has any requests._ Please…no more, please…

_Somehow, his mangled body’s healed enough that his hands reach for Chris. Until he hears the response, and they lifelessly hit the cold, blood-slick floor. "Take his hands." Sergei's all too delighted to._

_Bleeding stumps on the ends of his forearms, he is knelt again. Is too in shock to think to cover up when the group of white coats appears from nowhere, each one armed. They stand before him in a half circle, and start firing, filling him with ammo that gives new life to his screams and sees to sad efforts to protect himself. Any limb he blocks with they simply shoot away._

_Until it stops and Chris is there, aiming one of the launchers at him, and Albert shakes his head in a silent plea, squeezes his eyes shut._

_The entirety of his lower half suddenly ablaze, he shrieks wildly, saucered eyes snapping open to the unmissed sight of lava all around him. Wailing for an end, he tries getting himself out, but he has no hands to grip with. Sobbing desperately, he looks up to Chris steadying the launcher at him just before shooting him dead in the face._

_He's pulled from the magma, but not mercifully. Doesn’t realize how or why the only thing that rocket hit does damage to is his mind. Wide eyes rolling, painfully taking in his surroundings - the prison he's somehow returned to whole but for his hands, the crowd of inmates waiting to make him unwhole again, Sergei and Chris stood ahead of them all once more._

_"Show Chris here how much you enjoy your friends." But his hands… There's no way he can perform that, no strength to do much besides twitch where he lays._

_Then he’s on his knees again. At the sound of crying not his, a furtive glance reveals a small, naked child being ushered in. A boy. Pale feet cut into the shaky view of the floor before him, but he doesn't chance another glimpse to see any more of the child, nor by whom he's being brought in. The volume of crying goes up._

_"No hands, slut?" Hands or not, at that voice, he instantly moves to cover himself._ No… No, no, not him… _"That's no problem at all. You have two more - and a mouth - right here." His wide eyes fix on the helplessly sobbing child he'd once been. Then on the form of Spencer making his way to stand between onlookers Sergei and Chris, and then face him, a smirk cutting across his lips and an all-knowing look in his gaze._

_"I showed you what would happen should you fail, Albert. How the world would perceive you," the epitome of false sympathy. "Now, be a good little whore and get on your knees," he casually orders the boy. Albert's arms never move to unblock himself. "Let's see if the two of you can make sure…neither one forgets this time."_

_The boy sinks to a kneel, but doesn't move further as Albert stares on in frozen horror. This can't be possible. None of this is possible. He directs a helplessly pleading look at Chris, sees him smirking snidely and shaking his head, and how? Chris wouldn't. He couldn't!_

This is not possible, it isn't, please, it _isn't_ , it can't be real! _Please_!

_"How unappreciative you are to help when it arrives, you worthless fucking rat. Use the boy or he will enjoy these good men with you. And you will watch." Inmates and white coats with leveled weapons approach, surround both of his selves - the trembling boy loudly weeping into his hands in a terror Albert shouldn't share, not now, but he does, for the both of them._

_Because he_ can’t _do as Sergei demands. He's just so fucking scared and appalled and confused and_ ruined _by this. It can’t be real. He has to wake up!_

_Except he doesn't. And when the inmates grab them both, pull them away from one another, and he hears the piercing screams and can only scream too, it all feels very real. "No! No!"_

_Resistance and fight are futile. Then impossible when he can’t move at all, his head forced to the side against the floor, body jerking back and forth atop its slick surface. Sergei orders him to keep his eyes on the boy while they-_

~~~

He'd jolted awake from that hell only after having seen and felt too much, able to do no more than whimper and lose cold tears until violently shuddering free of its paralyzing hold what felt like an eternity later; subsequently falling apart and so shaken he couldn't even curl up properly for the quaking. He'd been so out of his mind, moving around the room without conscious thought, mindlessly murmuring for help. Insensible, unhinged, lost.

It takes him longer still to calm down enough for coherent thought, to convince himself none of reality happened those ways, that Chris (and Jill, the time she’d showed up) could indeed _never_ tolerate anything so vulgar. That it wasn't in his nature, and even if he resented Albert for what he did, he'd never stand idly by and watch _that_. Though Jill had been a bit hands on in the dream she appeared in, Chris, while always a hurtful mix of bitter and cruel, never once touched him.

Terror, horror, anger, misery - whichever onslaught of emotions he slams awake to the overpowering effects of, it always leads to him at last curled up on the recliner, damning the reckless beast he is, mourning what he’d done to Chris, miserably brooding over what it all means.

Surveying the wreck he's made of the furniture, an unwelcome sort of satisfaction falling away before it has the chance to fully develop, Albert thinks perhaps his latest punishment was constructive. But not to him. _It's at the very least saved you from the eternity of that pity party being thrown in your head._

Somewhere along the way his inner voice had come back, and it startles him now. It speaks neither to calm him nor with his permission anymore, which can wreak havoc on his frayed nerves. Perhaps it's returned to help him work things out since he rarely agrees with it. But he supposes it currently isn't _altogether_ incorrect. Anger has broken him from the constant terror, but it isn't a savior, and the aftermath of expressing it borders on terrifying.

The impersonal agony of merely being used for target practice was…nicer, relieving in a way best, if not only, appreciated in hindsight, but it also incited the vaguest restoration of that part of himself he cannot miss. The thing he was that wore hate and thrived off anger was a mistake and should never have been.

Righting the recliner from its thrown over state, he curls up on it and can’t figure out why he yet lives. What precise grievance he'd committed to lose everything so early on and then have to live with it. _Does it really make a difference?_

Was there ever a point to his life besides suffering? _'Life is suffering.'_ And yet it is death so instinctually avoided and consciously feared, collaboration of the two driving him to survive. Because life is so meaningful and precious and a beautiful fucking gift. What drivel. What total bunkum and balderdash. He’s died _multiple_ times, and in his experience, the sheer terror and despair hit hardest when waking to the realization that death pushed him away.

 _'Life is what you make it.'_ A humanitarian's nod to his own guilt. Chris naïvely claimed he wasn’t to blame, made it sound true every time, but he hadn't known. Albert hadn’t told him. Umbrella _tried_ to make him, but was only successful once he let them. Said allowance makes him complicit.

Chris also said death is a part of life, but if that’s true, why is Albert so denied? _You've been dead a long time, you willful wretch; do try and make the best of it._ Is that what maintaining a lifetime of lies and avoiding introspection was? Making the best of it? _Better than this._

Throughout his youth, even Spencer attested to his being gifted with above average intelligence, but those had to be lines of fiction too. Perhaps to inflate a years later nurtured ego. While he cannot deny academic smarts, he’s obviously lacking in other areas. What all-around genius made the stupid choices he had? What deficient breed wouldn't have noticed to whom his survival was beneficial? What sort adhered to lies and adopted fear-inciting cruelty of their own? What kind came to _enjoy_ putting that fear in others?

 _What sort denies the being monster he knows he is?_ But Chris- _Oh shut up!_ Startling him again. _You know what you did to dear old Chris, what you positively_ itched _to do to those white coats._ Oh. _Idiot._ He cringes at the insult. He has not missed or is in need of the berating when he's already so low, but really, it's just as well.

It makes perfect sense that he atone for his monstrous miscalculations until death finally decides to bestow its mercy upon such an incompetent, meritless soul as his own. _Say it never does?_ The arrogant mockery audible. He can't bear granting credence to such a bleak supposition.

How immature and unfounded to label any of this _unfair_ after a lifetime of failing to recognize opportunities to end his villainous streak. It's his own fault the time for that has evidently passed. His own fault Chris is dead and he doesn’t know what to believe anymore, all because he couldn’t accept his punishment for failure. Spencer warned him, prepared him. _And you chose to forget._ A lot of good that genius move did _anyone_.

What a wretched joke he is. A walking nightmare suffering nightmares. Crying for help like a fucking child for its guardian. Pathetically weeping for the man he’d spent years half wanting to kill, only after he’d unwittingly done the deed he’d failed or elected not to do countless times prior.

The universe itself must be punishing him, laughing at his halfwit's attempt to deviate from Spencer's plans. Showing him just where his intelligence lies, thinking he could have Chris in any other way than in the devious manner he'd always planned. _Should have stuck with the original plan._ He shakes his head in weary but hard disagreement.

He’s been so… _bloody_ tired.

Back in Kijuju, fighting like a lunatic to achieve the latest level of arrogance Spencer deemed worthwhile, he'd felt it without mitigation. How exhausting existence had become, how seemingly out of his hands his own was. When he's forthright with himself to an unqualified degree, he knows an end is what he'd sought with Uroboros. He, like all before, was meant to succumb. But nothing - not Uroboros, Chris, lava, two rockets to the face, nor the united efforts of them all - proved enough. Sunken below the surface of that lava, he'd become a true raving lunatic.

No going down in a final and literal blaze of glory.

Fate clearly had rather different plans for him. Refusing him death. Serving him up with another survival so he’d suffer most unremitting indignity and abuse and remember that that abuse was his punishment. Forcing him to face just what he was inside, to rejuvenate his earliest self-hatred and see him beg for the things he'd plead for back then, just to deny him there too. Then finally allowing him quality doses of that comfort he'd hatefully scoff at the very idea of, only to see him deny himself.

If the punishment was only his to take on, why make Chris' loved ones pay? _You refreshed their memories. Dear Chris obviously forgot what he was dealing with._

He has to wonder what it will take now. Which unbeaten path might lead to a final end. Is it possible there's some unexplored anguish he hasn't yet felt? Then why the wait? Send him on his way, let it burn to ash the remaining shreds of this poor impression of man he is, because he'd known himself done with existence back in West Africa, but _now_ …

Now, he hasn't the mindset, desire or ability to operate in any useful capacity. Sergei saw him thoroughly torn apart by _performances_. Daily. And he still doesn't know how long that was for, but it was long enough. The abuse so sufficiently drawn-out and directionless he's afraid of things that aren't even there.

And now his mind invents sleep terrors more hellish than the reality, and he’s scarcely functioning at all. _It’ll pass._ But it won't. _The coward in you blocked it all out before, it can block-_ " _No_ , I _can't_ ," he pitifully grits out into the upholstery. _I can't._ He'd been too young to understand just what he was doing then, and he had Spencer and Marcus to drive him in a set direction. The wrong direction, but the only one he knows the destination of like one knows their hometown. Now, he's too aware and he'd killed the one trying to show him another way.

Sergei always was so eager to remind him just how pathetic and worthless he is.

 _'You still cry like a beaten child. If only everyone you ever betrayed could see you now.'_ But they had. Or, at least Chris had, and whether or not pity fueled it, he never wanted Albert to feel like less because of it. The memory of how that felt, how strange and wonderful, compels the tears to fall. Chris made him feel a way he couldn't understand, like maybe he wasn't a total waste of space, even though he couldn't do a damn thing. _It’ll pass._ But he knows it won’t as well as he knows he is, in fact, a waste.

Though, in one of his choice dreams, she'd fitted him with a controlling device of her own and made him perform…wretched acts, there's a sliver of possibility that Jill comes around with forgiveness for him in her heart. But it's irrelevant. She'd be more sensible harboring revenge because Albert's not meant for acceptance into her world. He was built to destroy, meant for a new dawn he failed and no longer wants to bring forth. A world that does not and will never exist.

At least under the white coats' torture, he'd forgotten sometimes - how he was raised, where he was, what he'd done, how unworthy he is. It drove him mad, but cognizance is worse and his nightmares worse still.

He'd never admit it to anyone, but spending the rest of eternity asleep would be the most deserving punishment for him. He has no right to hide that, but so what? How much proof does anyone need to see he can't be trusted? Ample evidence has been provided, he thinks, head throbbing, over-stressed. _All creatures that deny their nature and attempt to sate themselves on improper sustenance grow ill; suffer._

Worn as he is by going over the same ruminations again and again, being tired won't make him forget or deny that there's nothing natural about the monster he is; he wasn't born this way, and had, too, suffered allowing himself to become it. And he no longer owns the armor of hatred anger used to sustain.

======================

_"…no more staying in the room when he's asleep."_

But Chris is already on his way there.

It's like gliding. Once Jill struggles to fit the brace about his waist, Chris' socked feet barely feel like they’re touching the cold, immaculate tiled floor as he rushes to the familiar wing with her on his heels, urging him to _'calm his shit'_. "Sorry." But he hardly slows down. A blessing that he'd been able to throw in some surprise PT the last two days.

"Chris, dammit, are you even considering how completely…discombobulating seeing you might be for him? Again: _Pretty_ sure he thinks you're _dead_."

"Yep. But thankfully, I'm not. And I have healing wounds as proof I'm no ghost to boot," rushing his words just the same as his steps. He has no set plans aside from seeing Wesker. He’s all he’s been thinking about, all that’s mattered. The only reason he’s behaved so well for Dr. Anders. "I think any reaction to his environment at this point will be a plus again."

"Fair enough, but don't go taking a fist through the face to get it. He's been beating the room up _real_ good as of a couple days ago."

Which is news and a shock to hear, but not enough to deaden his pace. "Anything else I don't know?" he asks, purely curious if a bit worried.

"Nope. He doesn't really do much but sleep, fall apart and kill the walls. And not exclusively either, Chris," she warns.

Assuring Jill he intends to employ uncharacteristic caution without even knowing what the hell he means by that, he finally reaches the room and stops dead in his tracks to stare past the panel, just looking as Wesker sleeps curled up on what had come to be Chris' recliner. He doesn't give much notice to the massive bloody dents in the walls or what used to be the table and chairs.

"I thought you'd prefer to see that for yourself. He misses you." At his eventual reaction, "Oh, Chris," taking him in a hug. He's appreciative of both her comfort and short stature. "You big sap." After the longest minute, "Waking him might be the safer option, if you can figure out a safe way. The furniture was…well, still furniture last night. Hopefully the fact that it’s not anymore attests to how he can wake up."

Chris mutely nods, no desire to rush in since Wesker’s not awake. Maybe Jill is right, but he’d never considered disturbing Wesker from peaceful rest before, and he can’t now. It never crossed his mind, and fear of breaking the deal had nothing to do with it, and he recalls now that Wesker is a free man. No two-sided bullshit hanging over his head, no promise of conditional safety on one side with a threat of lifelong punishment on the other.

======================

In a deep sleep, Albert's mind conjures up an irrational version of what he’d done to Chris.

~~~

_Grieving against Chris' bleeding body after failing to rouse him, Albert startles at the chilly touch to his head, at the ensuing shushes. Jerking back, he plants his focus across at the dull imitation of concern in Chris’ whited out eyes, horrified. Rooted to the spot. But the zombie-like thing that is Chris beckons his return, tells him in a drab monotone that it’s okay and he's not going to hurt him, and Albert…goes. Crawls into the frigid lap with a series of sobbed and choked out apologies. Desperation toppling over in great gouts, needing to receive this any way he can. Even when he knows for certain it’s not real._

~~~

He knows it’s not real and so he wakes weeping in a misery that grows at that loss. The soft hushing lingers, and with great, stuttering sobs, he nuzzles into the cushioned surface and cries in mourning. Vaguely hears the continued sounds he knows are not real. Feels the gentle carding through his hair that is, and instantly snatches at it. Immediately lets go at the shocking feel of unexpected warmth (or anything at all) and the sharp and subtle sound of a wince. Startles up in the recliner and looks over to see…

_Impossible._

Blinking hard and removing his tears, the vision remains unchanged. Unwavering.

“Hey,” giving him a sad smile, rubbing at his own wrist. After a few seconds of Albert’s head shaking in quick little motions and his disbelieving eyes darting all over Chris’ face, “Wesker, I’m so sorry-“

“Chris?” a delicate blend of hurt, hope and confusion mainly glued to Chris, but taking in the room in rapid glances as well.

“Yeah… You’re awake,” scratching at his neck and looking _guilty_ , of all the ways he could, of all the ways he has lately. But Albert shakily gets to his feet and just stands before him, trembling and ever staring, his straining gaze finally falling down on one of Chris’ hands. He reaches a quaking one of his own out toward it, fingers splayed out as he stares a deeply aching, fragile hope at Chris’, waiting, doubting, always doubting, especially now, a mantra of pleas in his head. _Please be real, please be real, please don't hurt me, please be real._ He just knows to expect cruelty.

But Chris reaches back instead. Answers the unspoken question in that gingerly given physical affirmation ( _support_ ) he's provided since day one. Grasps his fingers with solid warmth and links them together. Tries to ease his shaking form to him, but Albert’s legs give under the increase of his trembles, the enormity of this reality forcing him to his knees. Staring at Chris' grip on his hand, ribs threatening to yield to the rabbit-quick beats spreading gratitude, relief and something alien to the ends of every finger and toe, he thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like.

Maybe this is what being ruined by something as foreign as joy is. Maybe he’s discovered it in the inability to find voice, in the rolling of stunned tears, on his knees, his shuddering frame pressed up against Chris, all strength sapped from the empty hand too in shock to hold on.

It certainly feels like it could be a moment of sheer elation when Chris, never letting go of his hand, drops down to meet him there and hold him properly. And cry right along with him. Like maybe he’s been missing him too. “Forgive me for being such an idiot?” Like maybe he was never angry with him, and nothing's changed, but Albert can’t even nod or do anything but tremble and remain as is to let Chris know he does or how little sense that makes. _This_ is the confusion he’s been missing.

Chris’ confusing words like smelling salt scented salve for his mental wounds, sharply waking him to fresh interpretations that soothe as they make more and more sense. Make him feel less like pointlessly kept recalled machinery. More like the hatred he has for himself is so misplaced and better suited for the people who kept him in line.

“I shouldn't have been so careless-” like it’s somehow _his_ fault Albert is dangerous “-when you've dealt with enough of that from everyone.” Baffling, that. “It's my fault we got hurt,” tone fragile as he’s ever heard it, but Chris audibly swallows it down for something sturdier. “And I know what you probably thought, but only _I_ deserved it because I-” _forgot what I was dealing with_ , Albert already knows. “-needed to do better. You deserve better.” Even past the welcome ringing of confusion, he hopes that doesn't translate into 'someone else'. “I’m so sorry you were hurt for my stupid mistake.”

And he’s been hurt so much it shouldn’t even matter. Albert's thrown pain around too. But Chris, through an emotion laden voice Albert hasn't heard from him before, lets him know how much it all matters and why, and keeps going until Albert thinks he understands.

“Wesker, I'm sorry all you'd ever known by the time we met was cruelty and hate. That you never knew compassion. That it was _abused_ out of you," he says, his resolve incorporating growls versus breaks, "by _monsters_. I'm so sorry no one ever helped you, that you…had to fucking _beg_ for decency you never got anyway," that growled emphasis breaking, Albert's single sob of remembrance doing the same as he trembles harder. But Chris pauses, stroking his hair to calm. "I know you tried to stay good. That you suffered…giving up just to survive, but you’re not to blame for that. You're not a monster. They were, Wesker. Not you. They _chose_ to abuse innocent children. Filled your head with lies for _nothing_."

The question of how Chris can even know niggles, but Albert already decided he doesn’t care, not when all Chris says in regards to it _doesn’t_ make him want to burrow into the cold ground and never show his face again. Not when he has the tender warmth of Chris' elucidation and understanding to do that into.

“ _No one_ gets to judge you for any of it. Not me, not anyone, okay?” _Okay. Anything._ “I never understood, and that's not your fault either.” Anything Chris says, impossible or improbable, he intends to do his best to trust and accept because the universe is making truth of those things. It returned Chris, in what feels like some cosmic act of…forgiveness. Or apology, if he dares. “It's all theirs.”

With a newfound acceptance of Chris and his words, Albert does think he finally understands. Speeding through the facts in the new light of Chris’ words, it all starts to make sense - why, perhaps, every single thing isn't his fault.

Earliest days spent broken and hollowed out, with Spencer filling the voids while he was most susceptible. Years of being told what he was and wasn't meant to be alongside the ruinous pain of a fresh violation brutally reminding him of what failure lead to. Torment that broke him in ways he couldn’t even comprehend. Trying desperately hard the only way he knew - seeking a savior in every new face. But Chris is right. No one helped him. Every miserable pleading attempt quickly relayed to Spencer, ensuring he was punished. Beaten and… _raped_ time and again. Until he hated - everyone and the world as they'd made him perceive it. Until resisting and looking for help made no sense.

By the time anyone offered kindness or a soft touch, it felt insulting in a myriad infuriating ways.

A barely contained revulsion of his own drove everything gentle far, far away. Or…not his own. Forgetting was his own, but Spencer's ingrained programming kept Albert on the straight and narrow - path to achieve nothing more than what Umbrella had planned for him. It explains that feeling of constant seclusion, no matter where he was, who he was with or what he heard or saw. So internally rewritten every behavior felt his own. Prior to his death, Spencer all but confirmed Albert’s being manufactured.

The more deliberation he lends to Chris' words, the more sense it makes. Umbrella is responsible for the vast majority ( _all?_ ) of what he’s done. There's no explanation for the moments of fun - a terrible, unheard of _fun_ \- spent toying with Chris. But all his suffering apparently _was_ for nothing. And maybe he’s not a monster for all he'd done. Maybe he _is_ human, though he hasn't felt so in a very many years. He’s felt it - _weak_ , as he comprehends it - lately and feels it now, in quiet mourning for all he'd lost and never known. But it also feels like he's gotten a lot back.

The universe returned his savior. The last person he'd expected could actually want- _care_ to help him. One who doesn't make him feel like a broken tool.

“ _Please_ know that you deserve not only to survive, but to _live_ ," Chris implores him, "to know friendship and compassion. Trust. I know you didn't have a chance before, but you do now. Anything you need, just let me know. I promise it's yours.”

For a while now, there's just the one need he's had with any surety.

"This. J-Just this. You…" Though, maybe he shouldn't ask for so much. He knows he'd hurt Chris. That should probably inspire space between them, but these other worries and details vying for relevance fall by the wayside to a singular importance: This is all that matters.

_For now._

Because of how still he's gone, he knows the renewed force of shuddering isn't his own, nor the hard snuffle, and he hopes Chris isn't crying in guilt over a first rejection. Fingers finding the strength to grip, Albert rips his hand free of Chris', adjusts himself to wrap both arms around him tighter, ignoring the new tension and cut off gasp, clenching at fabric for life because _this_ is _all that matters_. "Please." _Please, this, please, just this, just you, please-_ "Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry f-" _for hurting you, for not trusting you_ , but Chris, the oddity, never wants that.

"Okay," the syllables broken, “okay,” Chris nodding against him, pulling him in tighter in turn, a soothing hand at the back of Albert's head. Tells him anything he needs, whatever he wants for as long as he wants, always, accepting him, and if this isn't care, then it must be something better. It feels good, warm and safe, and that’s more than he deserv- More than anyone’s ever given or even offered him. For nothing.

He’s under no delusions - he’s done _nothing_ , can barely manage the short walk necessary to take a piss, and Chris is giving him _everything_.

Long minutes of comfortable silence grow uncomfortable for their knees and alert Albert's senses to the fact that it's been too long since he's had a shower.

Clean and padding over to Chris on the mattress, he apologizes the way he's been wanting to and, after Chris calms him, expresses his most prominent worry.

“I was afraid I-“ he starts, changes his mind as he seeks comfort in Chris' open arms. “Please…don't leave me alone.”

Slowly closing his eyes, he lets the last of his tears spill over in sheer relief when Chris just _gets_ the gravity of what he's asked.

“I'll always come back. I promise.”

======================

Chris can't remember ever missing running his fingers through anyone's hair before. If he thinks back far enough, he has memories of comforting his sister that way, but that was different. He'd never pined for the gesture, simply provided it for the girl he adored anytime she needed it.

Carding a hand through Wesker's damp mess of strands, some neglected, wilted thing in him stirs to perk right up at how Wesker’s quaking minimizes down to its lowest. As he had done almost two weeks ago, he places the grateful pride only Wesker's approval seems to provide him with for what it is. If he didn’t know Wesker was so comforted by it, he might even feel outright selfish, but that isn’t the case, so he just wants to keep running his fingers and do his damnedest to somehow help Wesker find his own ( _not homicidal_ ) way.

For the drunken pair of sexual encounters Chris has under his belt, he finds laying here simply soothing Wesker feels more intimate than either of those couplings. By witnessing such a remarkable change forced by horrific trauma, through learning the full extent of what _made_ Wesker, he understands him like he's known him his whole life. Far as he's concerned, that gives this connection far more meaning than any impassioned night of pleasure could ever assume. He finds it weird that he's thought of that to even make such a comparison, but there's no doubt it's how he feels. He feels so very close to him.

Lifelong supporter of love as he is, his loves are close friends and his sister. He's hardly _in_ love with anyone, but that's irrelevant. He knows there's nothing he wouldn't do for the small group he calls family. It's more than enough to make him happy, keep him going.

Anyway, he'd been too much of a stick in the mud to welcome any serious relationships after believing he'd lost Jill for good. Had nightmares to wake the people on all neighboring sides of any motel or hotel room he slept in to ever consider attempting to share his already _wild_ nights with anyone.

But he absolutely adores love. People who'd discovered life’s greatest blessing in each other were, sadly, so rarely seen, but every now and again, he'd look upon it. Find himself smiling like an idiot, and each time, it cleared the fog of any doubts he had about why he did what he did.

Dark imaginings of those very people running in terror from literal monsters, any of them losing a best reason for waking up in the process, was enough. He'd lost people he loved too, and the memory pain reopened that aching wound anytime he saw another person forever changed - no saying into what. He'd never thought to apply that to Wesker. To consider what he might have lost to turn out the way he had; what broke and built him into that perceived monster.

Threats to precious human connections were threats to a better future, and he wonders if this connection he’s forging here with his former enemy is going to lead to a better tomorrow as well. For Wesker. Because, like Jill said, he'd never had a chance before.

Chris only feels for him, but late beats never, and Chris has faith that Wesker will find a better way once he sees that there _are_ , in fact, other ways. No one will force or take advantage of him here. No one expects anything from him. Chris is only hopeful that he will heal well under decent treatment he'd never received before. Umbrella's conditioning ensured the most basic compassion was unacceptable, that Wesker's mind wouldn't so much as harbor the slimmest desire for human companionship. They abused him so terribly for thinking the slightest trace of humanity for anyone, including himself, was okay.

Yet an attachment is what he'd asked for. Said all he wants is Chris. Squished much of the air from his lungs and begged for him, and none of that was quite what Chris or his tender wound had expected. It caught him right off guard, with a pained gasp he did his best to hide, and shattered him also a bit more than expected. Lately running on E as he's been, drained by worry and working to heal faster, there wasn't much left in him to battle against the rush of emotions. But then holding it in felt ridiculous and he let himself react. Allowed Wesker, who has difficulties with trust and poor self-image, hear _and_ see the truth of what he means.

The past weeks have been filled to the brim with significance, and if Chris is this worn down, he can't begin to imagine how whittled down to the marrow Wesker must feel. All the confusion and abuse and terror. The goddamn nightmares. The world seeing him as a monster, further confirming it for his brainwashed mind. Chris included. And what a damn shame that is. Umbrella kept him so isolated, his existence so hidden no one outside of the company could've ever been the wiser. But that was over. An even bigger shame how that came to be, but there's no changing it.

The few people who currently know the full-scale facts make for a minuscule group as large as it ever needs to be. Jill had been especially protective and discreet with what she shared.

There's no reason to withhold that information just so it can be found out in some surely more uncomfortable way later. Hearing about it will be distressing enough as is, but Wesker has the right to know, and it's better he hear it from Chris.

Settled on the bed in familiar positions - Chris leant up against the wall with a lap full of Albert - and a shared state of bliss, Chris rakes a slowed rhythm through his hair and starts talking. He first apologizes. Again for the entire accident that landed himself in hospital. For never getting around to telling Albert about the deal he’d worked out for him with the BSAA. Lastly, for the time he spent as a test subject of a BOW weapons project. Albert passingly reflects on how far along the developers are in that technology, now knowing that's what it was.

Jill had rescued him from a delayed release from that project, and he now recalls seeing her there. Is utterly surprised she'd done that for him. After all the awful things he's done to- Consciously ending that train of thought, he tells himself with an unsteady resolve that this tedious way of thinking has to stop.

How hard is it to accept that if Chris, Jill, _whoever_ wants to forget what a blemish on their lives he’d been and help him, then that's what they're going to do? For how much longer is he going to irritatingly fall back on questioning their inexplicable decisions? She _did_ get him out of there. She _did_ return him here. She _tried_ talking to him, but he'd not even tried to listen. Dealt that full deck of insolence, what she _didn't_ do was force or hurt him, and he can't understand why.

Wouldn't it be grand if, at some point, he could start believing in them versus automatically thinking the way he does? But apparently it's going to _'take time for you to trust and feel safe'_. Chris cleverly doesn't tack an ‘again’ on the end of that, says his tenuous trust is completely understandable. It's something he'll have to work on, but this actuality is just so…unorthodox. Chris behaves and treats him in the strangest ( _best_ ) of ways, and that’s going to take a great deal of getting used to.

"I'll be right beside you the whole time," he assures. "So long as you want me here."

What Albert secondly wants most is for the most crippling side effects of what was done to him to wane. Conveniently enough, he knows the therapeutic workings on how that's achieved, and it has much to do with why his anxious mind overthinks _everything_ to an insane degree, with why unknowns are so unnerving. Therapists at Umbrella couldn't very well let nightmares rule his mind when it was to be theirs, after all.

The problem is the custom amount of time it will take, how utterly dependent on the advanced science of the mind it is when his remains so easily diverted by raw terror. So he’s had the plain room memorized for a long while, and now ruminates, warns and assures himself and does it some more. Tries to have every base covered, but so far, no matter how prepared he thinks he is, he's never close to it. He's never fallen asleep or woken up peacefully. Hearing Jill's voice meant blocking it out in fear, even while knowing she hadn't once hurt him. Being aware of the unlikely but undeniable facts does nothing to ease his mind.

A currently exacerbated fear is the one over how out for blood he sometimes wakes up. Chris is back at number one on his Likeliest Casualties list. Even worse are the times he remembers nothing, coming back to himself already wide awake, a huddled over, inconsolable mess. It'd never been so extreme all those years back in Umbrella.

"I just have to be a lot more considerate of your needs when you sleep."

Violence he'd indulged in for years now a threat to the only thi- _person_ that matters.

For nearly fifty years, no life but Albert's own has ever come close to holding significance. Because he'd been Umbrella's one and only creation, a highly narcissistic level of self-preservation worked to their benefit. Which turned out pointless since he's obviously immune to being killed.

Destruction and world domination exchanged for safety and comfort. These.. _things_. This… _contact_ he'd _never_ respected because people who were dead convinced him attachments are for the weak. Yet the push for one is why he wants to get up again. To heal and maybe eventually attempt to navigate this alien lifestyle where there's no destructive goal in mind, no threats for if he fails. Chris said he couldn't anyway, and that's as crazy as relieving.

It feels unlikely he'll succeed. Like a reach for something that should not be his. But 'unlikely' and 'should not' are improvements, he believes, from the 'impossible' and 'can never' of minutes ago.

For now, all he wants is a chance to just be still; at ease. If he works hard enough, maybe he can have it indefinitely.

But now Chris is answering that niggling curiosity of earlier, telling him how he's aware of Albert's history. Making his skin crawl. Fear running its bony fingers along his spine with Spencer's words _'he knows what you are.'_ _He knows what_ you _are_ , he thinks with false bravado, his face and neck still tingling at the crawling because Sergei gave Chris Albert's Project W files.

_'…get moving before I play your home movies for everyone.'_

Videos. That Chris "skimmed though nearly all of," and Albert could cry as he wordlessly affirms remembering the abuse and denies remembering any family and offers no insight, shuddering hard in fear of it being something he's expected to divulge. It isn't. Instead, Chris apologizes for the breach in privacy and says Jill saw the files too.

Utterly mortified, he can only listen as Chris finishes naming the people who know just how pathetic ( _disgusting_ ) he is. Some psychiatrist slash surgeon Albert doesn't even know is aware of a few significant details, but saw nothing. The BSAA director knows more, but also saw nothing. Very decent people who sought to help, Chris promises.

The proof lays in the current facts: While Chris was laid up with his injury, Jill wasted no time getting Albert cleared of all "false charges" with the director, and the therapist offered her services in the event he feels the need for one. It all rings with importance, but falls flat as far as comforting him goes. That Chris hasn't let him go helps some, but if he never has to see any of the others who know, he might feel better.

Sergei also left the footage from the prison's security cameras, and Albert wishes he could blink out of existence. Because of how Jill stopped watching within the same minute Albert showed up, no one aside from Chris actually saw any of it. He did a lot of fast forwarding with a purpose in mind. "Far as I could see," Chris says, "everyone who ever set foot on the premises was dealt with. In one way or another." Which assaults Albert's curiosity.

What of the inmates? The guards? He has to know, so he asks. Brings his head up to stare in shock when Chris says he killed them all. Along with a clone of Sergei. He'd never expected to hear any of that, and he's sure his expression gives it away. That's a lot of dead people, so Albert has to know, “Why?”

Chris explains that he'd for weeks been staking out the prison yard. “I saw…what Sergei did to you.” At that, struck by fear and shame, he finally does look away. Down at the lap he's suddenly too afraid to do more than hover over, so convinced Chris forces himself to tolerate his touch. He remembers well enough what Sergei _and_ the others had done to him too, and not just in the yard.

“It was the fastest way to stop them, yeah, but I _wanted_ to do it,” and that gets him to look up. “And I'd do it again. Every time.” The sincerity allows him to settle back down again to Chris' waiting fingers.

Chris says the files "won't leave the hard drive. It's up to you to decide how and when they're destroyed." The first opportunity Albert gets.

Shame threatens to befall him again whilst Chris tells him he knows of how he was raised. Of every _'rotten'_ thing Spencer did. The abuse. The conditioning. His gradual transition. Marcus running him into the ground with that supposed praise that came to mean everything to him for a few years, until nothing except getting the hell out from under both Spencer's and Marcus' combined scrutiny became most important.

Then Chris labels every last person who'd hurt him _'disgustingly ignorant'_ and _'fucking perverse'_ and _'irresponsible'_ , says the same of their methods. He expresses righteous fury and heartfelt sympathy for Albert’s stolen past and tightens that hold he's convinced is better than care around him to say how _'fucking glad'_ he is that everyone from the project is dead. That they should never have existed in the first place. Which is curious.

"They didn't expect any child to be as strong or clever as you. Certainly didn't expect you'd be the one to give them what they deserved." And the lonely chill of embarrassment melts under Chris’ heated praise.

That unwelcome shame washes back into the tumultuous tide of always threatening emotions, and he rests easier. He'd held so many suspicions and was never sure if it was them or himself who'd been so ignorant and imprudent, who'd been less human and more monstrous. ( _Who’d deserved to die._ ) He'd known they were cruel, but simply believed it an obstacle he'd failed to get over without arrogating himself.

Why again did he feel guilt over his lifelong disdain for humans? His reasons are possibly more acceptable than maybe anyone ever had for hating him. With Umbrella's actions as stark evidence, other humans felt the same hatred toward their own. But just having thoughts to justify his monstrous behavior is frightening. It feels like he's doing something wrong. Like disobedience and a betrayal to Chris. Like he's going to be ( _should be_ ) punished.

When asked if there's anything he wants to say or ask, anything he needs, his answer is unchanged. "This."

Albert rather hates that Chris can’t stay with him when he sleeps. Of course, he understands why without being told, and basically expected it, but now that he's growing tired, he hates it. Detests how unnaturally dangerous he is to Chris, how he'll have to carry on sleeping poorly and waking up alone. He is also terrified, already mourning the eventual loss of every ounce of newly acquired resolve once the nightmares and terror kick back in. But he has no intention of giving voice to any of his distress. Thankfully, Chris shares in half of it.

“Yeah, I think it sucks too. But I’ll be right here, just outside the door,” opening it to reveal yet another recliner on the other side. “This panel won’t be blacked out anymore either," rapping a knuckle on its smooth surface, "and the door won’t be locked. You’ll be able to see me and come out, if you want. You’re not a prisoner.”

He nods in understanding and knows he won’t be venturing out any time soon. Isn’t keen on the notion of seeing other people. That Chris will definitely want him to is a point of serious unease. Especially since Chris cleared up a few facts. Every issue Albert has with humans is their own fault. Their fault his perception of _himself_ is so deplorable as well.

There’s simply no rationalizing placing him around them, his adamance there far more unyielding than it ever was. Fear, it appears, will always be a greater motivator for him than hate. Fear that's increasing over his bad thoughts. Before any deliberation can be held at all, fear decides for him, and it's telling him he won't be stepping out into civilization anytime soon. No one gets hurt that way.

He hopes Chris won't ever force the issue. Won't ever learn of Albert's abiding low opinion of humans. The species might be lost, but he doesn't think it wrong to believe the vast majority should never be pitied or catered to, let alone trusted. _Neither should you._ A species of arrogant expectation and entitlement.

Cruelty is a gift it created, one it hasn't ceased bestowing upon even its own sons and daughters. In his experience, nothing is safe from or too precious for that. Not the innocent, not anything. It makes his fingers twitch in a way he'd rather they didn't ( _couldn't_ ) before every inch of him flares up with cruel reminders of what happens when he disobeys.

======================

A week later, they're both pretty used to the new set up. Light sleeper that he is, Chris wakes the moment he hears a peep come from the room, and waits for the inevitable awakening. It's mostly not even violent, but it's always horrible. Always a heartbreaking ordeal. But he takes Wesker in his arms the moment it's safe - when his presence is unmistakably being sought out.

No matter how much he loathes the wait (the watching and listening), he's still got a smidgen of healing to do from what carelessness in this situation causes. Regardless of what Chris says, Wesker still feels awful about it. Can't even recall the attack he keeps apologizing for when he wraps a little too tightly around Chris' midsection and feels the resulting tension over _'just a little discomfort'_. Chris refuses to ever call it pain, not when it's Wesker who appears more agonized in those moments.

Jill is visiting regularly again, and Wesker has slowly but surely taken well enough to her presence. His distress around her held strong for several long visits, especially after hearing that she'd _seen_ what he'd done to Chris. And though Wesker was torn on the idea of being monitored, Jill ultimately made the decision to remove the camera, stating it was unnecessary with how often she'd be popping by. She tended to repeat that Chris wasn't the only one with a functioning brain and that she didn't blame Wesker for _'all the crazy shit'_ he did anymore either because he wasn't responsible.

As for the three years he spent tormenting her, all she had to say on the matter was, "Saved my free-falling ass when you didn't have to, whatever your reasons." And Chris' saliva goes down in the wrongest way to hear her say it. For all the effort Jill puts into speaking with him, Wesker never responds verbally and rarely looks at her, and she doesn't let it get her down. She never gives up.

Her light adamance proves worth it when eventually Wesker does stop hunching in on himself and fidgeting in a sad mixture of fear and shame at the sight and sound of her arrival, and even starts looking forward to discovering what smells so good in the bags of _'_ food _-food'_ she usually brings with her. When she presents him with _'the sweetest damn strong coffee I could find anywhere – I think the café dude said it's Cuban'_ , he even corrects her with only the smallest hesitation and flinch. Thanks her and accepts it, no flinch.

She tries for a casual _'oh'_ and _'no problem'_ , but Chris sees and shares in her astonishment, and just grins at her stealthily gaping expression. Mouths a good-natured mockery of that "thanks" at her.

Nightmares, as sure as his constant shaking, _very_ much remain a thing, but Dr. Anders' suggestion of having music playing while he sleeps is working small wonders for when he wakes up. It makes Chris wish he'd at least asked her for advice from the start. Wesker also hasn't had any immersive flashbacks in nearly a week. Chris simply doesn't engage in potentially harmful topics, lets Wesker take the lead there, and he has stammered through his confusions to work through them with Chris, nervously persevering until satisfied.

Though far from well, he’s showering at _least_ daily, has started slicking his hair back again because he _'dislikes it in his face'_ ; he eats and talks with Chris and is generally, Chris believes, doing somewhat better. Aside from the shaking, sometimes he looks completely well. And really, in the only places he doesn't, his signature shades would hide.

If anything, the biggest issue after his sleep terrors and lingering poor self image is his conscious terror at the idea of leaving the wing. He feels safe there. His persistent refusals toward therapy aren't a plus either.

The addition of classical music was a thoughtful gesture. Chris says his therapist friend made the suggestion, and Albert is forever grateful for it. It helps some with grounding his waking mind better than straining to hear the whir of a running fan through his nightmares in Umbrella ever did. But proper grounding or not, sleep is not something he welcomes and nothing settles him like physical comfort. Too bad nothing sends him back into dreaded sleep faster either. Attentive as Chris is, there have been times Albert's woken and reluctantly fallen asleep again in minutes. But sleep is continuously disturbed, so the exhaustion goes nowhere.

Jill comes by often. Where hearing the familiar sounds of her arrival initially put him on edge and made his eyes dart around the room for a non-existent place to hide, terror always beating the resolve to accept her into a pulp, the repetition of reassurances eventually begins to interfere with the distressing memories of vengeful promises once spat at him. They make him less terrified.

So overcome with fear and guilt he'd remained, remembering that stupid line he'd used before putting her through loads of inexcusable agony. _'Still resisting at such an advanced stage.'_ How often Spencer sneered it at him. No words on it being remarkable or commendable, but plenty on how futile it was. The numerous cruel things Albert had enjoyed saying and putting her through for those years… He has no idea how she can let any of it go.

But Jill, like Chris, tells him she won't forgive him because there's nothing to forgive. “We're all Umbrella's victims.” She says the best she can do is try to heal and take out potential successors, and leaves it at that. He loosens from his inward, shameful cringe when there's no mention of how much worse he suffered, no pointing out facts they all know, no singling him out in any way. It's comforting, and he appreciates it, but his anxieties stick anyway. Always reminding him of what he did and what she promised, keeping him wary, though he is less shy about inspecting her gifts of food once she sets them down and falls into a chair. Hospital fare truly is atrociously subpar.

Once he's comfortable enough with the entirety of the wing, they take to at least dining in the room meant for it. He's adopted the chair closest to and facing the kept open door, and she’ll smoothly leave the bags near it and plop down across and a few chairs down the long table, Chris in any seat between them. Albert chooses whichever container or bag of food he likes best and silently slides the rest down to Chris, gratitude on a tongue held down by fear and shame.

When he grows ill at his own behavior, Jill brings him the most aromatic coffee she ever has, and he knows before she’s even fully entered the wing that it's authentic Colombian and sweeter than he’s used to receiving, pre-alterations. When she calls it Cuban, he doesn't let fear smother his quiet correction for long. He can't keep from expecting to be corrected in turn either, but Jill just raises her brows in a genuine surprise he hopes is directed more at his speech than his correction. “Oh,” all she says. No scorn, no attitude whatsoever. So he thanks her while shoving down the fear and takes a careful sip of the liquid gold.

Consideration of leaving the room to explore the wing had wrought havoc on his mind, but Chris had already asked twice if it was something Albert had given thought to. The first time, he'd shrugged; the second, he said he'd give it a try. "After hours."

Outside the safety of the room, it was impossible for him to divert his attention from the darkened entrance doors. Dark or not, his eyes made sure he stood out, and he silently yearned for the cover of his shades and improved vision before his imagination escaped him. Thankfully Chris' encouraging voice and touch were there to empower him, and once he reached a window to the outside, all his worries went out it as he stared.

The moonlight, high treetops, black and grey-white sky. Purposely avoiding the few speeding lights below, he could pretend. Pretend he was far away from anyone who might hurt or want things from him. Far from cruelty, sharing space with nature's instincts and nothing more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt _so_ at peace and lost himself in the only sight he'd ever found true beauty in, not even taking note of what the brightening sky signaled.

Forcing himself to leave the view was almost as difficult as walking out of his room, but the lights outside of the wing were on again and he didn't want to risk anyone seeing him. Or vice versa.

Chris prompts him to speak in a myriad conspicuously inconspicuous ways Albert is secretly grateful for, and proves exceptional at answering all of his ensuing questions. Albert watches and is constantly placated by the solemn look in his eyes and the sincerity of his tone when he responds. When Albert doubts, Chris himself has nothing to do with it. However, he has nightmares that turn his inquiries into declared statements. From the look of Chris in those moments, very disturbing ones.

He supposes the sight of him waking up ashamed, terrified, angry, aroused, and telling Chris he's free to use him however he wants - that it's his right and Albert takes preference to being taken supine so he can see what's coming, and can take it as roughly as Chris likes once he's properly split open - _should_ bring about the level of disturbed Chris wears. More so since he'd been yelling; crying and struggling with removal of his shirt, and then simply ripping it away.

Grasping the waistband of his pants, Chris had been there to stop him. Had asked him what he needed, sounding as though he'd give him the sky he loved to gaze upon should he ask for it, and Albert hadn't known. Had been awash in shame and misery and the smallest trace of relief - because he knew what he _didn't_ want and that he didn't have to worry on it - and he’d wept. Had doubled over at the force, but again, Chris was there, gently, almost questioningly making to pull him in. Refusing to let him suffer alone and wanting to soothe away the pain so long as his efforts were welcome.

But they hadn't been, and Albert violently reeled away, hitting the wall hard and collapsing into a rigid, shuddering heap. Shielding hands between his legs, he'd apologized and begged to be left alone, and a placating, just as apologetic Chris had done as asked. After an unknown amount of time, Albert took care of his problem with a cold shower and promptly went in desperate search of Chris, damp hair askew, worry running rampant just beneath the tangled mess.

======================

The amount of conversation Wesker, almost exclusively when waking, lends to trying to take blame for the disgusting acts forced on him dwindles down to unvoiced anger and shame after two weeks pass.

His confidence grows - when it's just him and Chris - to the point where he starts conversations on his own. He asks many more questions about the people who'd created him, trying to discern how much of what they did was their fault without outright asking. And then outright asking whether it is their or his humanity in question. A confusion easily cleared up by Chris, though Wesker still distances himself from their species. Like some part of him believes only he and Chris are of the same kind, and even then, that Wesker himself is lower for being infected.

Chris is surprised to learn how much Wesker remembers of his early childhood and is less so to discover how little tolerance he has for being asked about it, so Chris respectfully doesn't bring it up. Shockingly, he only mentions Sergei's present situation once, to ask if he's still locked up and if the treatment held. Chris tells him it has, and Wesker dully replies with, "There's no cure for what he is." And Chris agrees, sure he gets his meaning.

It's the conscious anger Chris becomes genuinely nervous around. While Wesker's trembles have gone nowhere, his hateful, illuminated glare is a definite callback to his old self.

But fondness has no place in those moments. Chris handles them by giving Wesker space and quiet. When he's in one of his quiet moods or wakes up looking particularly disgusted, Chris simply asking if he's alright is enough to set him off to bitter and hateful replies. "Honestly, Chris, how the **fuck** can I be alright?" or, when he wakes up aroused and Chris too hastily enters the room and then tries to move just as quickly to give him privacy, "Too good to take what everyone else has, are you?" for example.

Responding to the latter in his first non-apology, assuring Wesker he’d never take anything from him, hadn't helped at all. “So I'm the one not good enough. You positively bowl me over. Get out.” Lost for words, Chris had stumbled.

“Wha- _No_ \- That's not-“ But Wesker wouldn't hear it.

“Just get the fuck out, Chris.” Really, he should've heard ringing alarm bells at the soft rumble of those words, like distant thunder signaling the approach of a surely violent storm.

But, “You're shaking…” So hard he appeared to be vibrating, but it felt like the wrong thing to say. Turned out he'd sensed correctly.

“Because I'm _fucking **scared**_ , you imbecilic troglodyte!” Damp eyes flashing a warning of bright crimson as he reacted in more than words.

Chris had learned then, speedily slamming the door before the recliner could slam into him, to leave an irate Wesker alone and not respond to the vicious bait in any way. Even when he occasionally broke down afterward, it was every time best to leave him be until _he_ sought Chris out. And he always did, filled to bursting with an overwhelming fear of rejection and guilt that always broke Chris' heart.

But Wesker is chiefly all vulnerability and humiliation when aroused, and Chris isn't entirely sure how else to be helpful than to do as he’d more than once asked and leave him alone, offering reassurance over his miserable apologies. The next time he can't keep from asking if there's anything he can do to help, Wesker answers and begs him off with pitiful utterances of _'I don't know'_ and _'please just go'_ and exacerbated regret. Leaving does seem to be the best choice.

Wesker has repeatedly taken Chris up on his promise to stick by him even if he throws things by continuing to, in fact, throw things - such as the recliner - at him. Save for one instance, he always expresses the utmost regret within minutes. Usually emphatically; once or twice in dull fright. Either way, Chris accepts him the same.

The one time he doesn't apologize right away, he tiredly asks Chris why he puts up with him. What, _exactly_ , it does for him. "I care about you," is all Chris has after bringing up his promise started sounding too much like obligation to Wesker. But then he's asked why, _how_ he can care about someone who'd taken such satisfaction in ruining his life, only sparing it because he'd wanted to infect him and make him live his nightmare alongside the hateful monster _he'd_ hated.

"Did you expect I allowed you to carry on breathing for the sake of good intentions? Believe me, that never could have been the case…even had I managed to want it."

A bit of a jarring reveal, and Chris doesn’t miss how Wesker sees it hit its mark, the angry but worried tears he defensively wipes out of existence from the orange glow of his eyes. Another test to see if Chris will push him away, because it always is. Whether the information is undeniably true (and he doesn't doubt it is this time) or not. Chris had always wondered about that, and he lets Wesker know.

"Guess we both saw the potential of having the other on our own side. You did make an excellent captain. I can't say I ever didn't want to be on your team. Even the ones who knew- _thought_ you were an asshole wanted you around when shit really got rough." Sniffing out a bit of dark humor, "If you _had_ infected me, I'd probably be safer around you now. Betting you'd still kick my ass to high hell."

But Wesker isn't amused in the slightest, he's frowning hard and shaking his head in small, gentle motions. A picture of puzzlement. Whatever understanding he comes to doesn't ease his frown, his expression somehow worsened, and he does apologize then. Quietly, while nodding his head the way he'd been shaking it seconds ago.

Chris gets the feeling Wesker had truly thought that would be the revelation that got Chris to leave him for good. He's secretly ( _guiltily_ ) relieved Wesker hadn't stuck with wanting to know why Chris dedicates so much time to him because that's not a subject he's at all ready to face in its entirety. "I'll only leave if you tell me to." It's come to be a favored reminder for both of them. That Wesker's not once told him to get out and never come back is all the relieving confirmation Chris needs.

As positive as all the talking they do is, Wesker could really use an escape from the monotony. His questions really don't waver, and Chris has to wonder after an alternative outlet for his mind. Pedestrian as the notion sounds in his head, he asks if he has any hobbies.

======================

After the two month mark, Wesker has north of forty large art books filled cover to cover with - from what little Chris has been allowed to see - professional grade pencil and charcoal sketches of landscape. The room with the view has been completely transformed from sleeping quarters to art room, a large easel sat before the window. There are journals too, but far less since Wesker takes to destroying those once they've _'served their purpose'_. Drawings he sometimes shares with Chris, but never his writings. All the supplies Jill brings him had to live in a room separate from the cell or risk falling victim to violent moods. Chris hadn't taken well to the idea of books, pencils and easels being used as ammo against him either, though Wesker does what he can to curb his fury and the direction of the objects he throws.

Being able to supply Wesker with an activity he seems to enjoy losing himself in is a blessing. Drawing took away his tremors until reality - the constant worrying and brooding he did otherwise - crept back in. Chris fills the time with work - emptying out an outrageously full inbox that's gone ignored since his return from Africa, still unable to give his superiors so much as a roundabout time frame for when he'll be able to get back in the field. It's simply too soon, and he has no clue. Though not like before and mainly when waking, Wesker asks so many of the same questions. He'll sometimes settle motionless, silently wrapped around Chris, and Chris likes to think maybe he recalls the repeatedly given answers to calm the chaotic doubt in his head.

Apparently satisfied with those previously unchanging areas of confusion concerning Umbrella and Sergei, Wesker one day directs his attention and built trust on Chris' question of whether or not he ever considers leaving the wing.

Very late one night, Wesker, likely wanting to make Chris happy, had explored the entire area. He gave the entrance doors hunted looks every now and again, but an utterly endearing, innocent mesmerization overcame his illuminated focus while looking out the window in what was currently his art room. That was over a month ago, and that window had then remained the only reason he continued to venture out of the room to not simply eat.

Stood trembling at it now, gazing mournfully out into the rain and grey clouds, glowing eyes reflecting against the glass, he hesitantly admits he never wants to join the crowds out on the streets below.

"I…still hate them," his quiet disclosure to the sky. "With infinitely greater passion now, I believe, is a fair assessment." Because he's afraid of what they can do, he goes on to say. He takes no comfort in the idea of being around or interacting with such unknowns.

"They're a… _willfully_ cruel, selfish, ignorant and irresponsible species, Chris." He has no lingering urge to end it, much to Chris' relief, but he says Chris confirmed his perspective with so many reassurances of Wesker's innocence. "Humans made me what I am. Most _pointedly_ this…wretched thing."

And he's so chilled at the thought that it was _ignorance_ behind all the guilt that _still_ eats at him, efforts of _ignorance_ marring his mind, making him shoulder the blame for what was done to him. Even _knowing_ he shouldn't, he does, because "…for a remarkably long time, I _felt_ … _so_ in control. So powerful. Physically, I was, and remain to be, but…” Mentally, he's a wreck. “I feel like a nuclear reactor waiting on the inevitable explosion. A hidden coal seam awaiting the igniting reach of long burning flames.” He feels dangerous. _Is_ , in fact. To society and, therefore, himself. To his freedom.

Stupidity had been a reliable catalyst for his heated temper before, a clearly shameful divulgence, but it isn't anger or arrogance governing his mind or actions now. Recently learning how terribly cruel and focused even the ignorant can be, coupled with the way he reacts when he’s scared…

The prospect of being locked up again is very real and too psychologically cumbersome. And now that there exists weaponry to specifically hinder _him_ , he’s but a shot away from falling victim to absolutely _anybody_ , and he really doesn't need to say how he feels when it's fully on display. Arms wrapped around himself, his terror is a visible and audible thing affecting his entire frame and expression, making his words quiver and break.

People hurt him, he returned the favor without realizing it, and, turning away from the window to face but not necessarily look _at_ him, he implores Chris to allow him to be finished with that. To please not think so lowly of him for it and for all the violence he yet exhibits, because he's sorry for the way he remains to be. To please not walk out the door and never come back, because he won't know what to do then. He says he feels nowhere close to a destination where he can fully rest, let alone feel at home in. Much as Chris would love to respond to reassure him, Wesker won't be interrupted.

He says he _likes_ Jill, but it's Chris who comforts him. Chris who makes him feel like more than even he believes he is. Chris who he trusts. Chris who never touches him in his nightmares, that last detail seamlessly tacked onto the end like there's nothing particularly disturbing about it. As though Chris' stomach sinking like a frozen anchor and the stunned pause of his lungs are meritless reactions.

"Please, I don't…I'll- Anything else," because he still stumbles over speech when he's distressed, still gets distressed when he can't help denying Chris something, and Chris' reassurances can still be useless when he believes he's done something wrong. "I'll speak to your psychiatrist friend."

Chris just hates hearing him beg and seeing him cry, and he reaches out a supportive hand, just in case. "Al-" Cut off by more words and the instant death grip making him worry for the bones in his hand.

"Please? Please, I can- I'll speak with her. I- Please?"

"Is it okay if we decide on that _just_ a little later?" Relieved to finally get a nod in spite of its hesitance. Wesker more or less crashes into him and that's just fine. "Alright. It's alright. I don't expect anything from you, Al," because calling him that makes him frown in that way that isn't pained, and because he says the _'ridiculous nickname'_ isn't attached to any memories - bad or otherwise. "Definitely not you jumping into society, okay?” And he feels the nod against his neck. "No one's going to force you. I was just curious if you'd given any thought to it. Now I know you have."

Without ever having met Wesker, Dr. Anders told Chris she suspects that mending his mind will remain a work in progress for several long months. And that was an approximation for _after_ he actually begins therapy. Still, the choice to see her needs to be entirely his own, and Wesker had already stated how unnecessary it is on account of the therapists he saw as a boy, citing he doesn't require a reiteration of the same techniques.

Honestly, Chris believes he _is_ , little by little, making progress anyway. Amongst all the questions he asks, he does bring up a lot of what was done to him too, and Chris merely listens. Gets the idea he's playing the unwitting role of therapist, and then he recalls what Dr. Anders had gleaned weeks ago. She'd warned him that might end up being the case since Wesker's familiar with therapy and is unwilling to let new people in.

Chris had forgotten the advised goal of showing complete trust to _others_. Oft as Jill visits, he never leaves them in a room together, and not _altogether_ for lack of trying. The one time he attempted a "be right back," Wesker latched onto his shirt before he could pass and never let go. Terrified, and then with pleading tears filling his eyes while quiet, desperate sounds that refused to be words passed his lips as his head vaguely shook when Jill offered words of assurance. Chris wound up feeling like shit. A million emphatic apologies and promises to never leave later, he'd apparently decided to give up on it for good. Which is quite the opposite of the right choice.

But, gazing out the window again, Wesker shocks him with an odd request, "Describe your friend to me?"

So Chris does - sweet and sassy, tiny, old but tough, severe grandma complex. Amongst other details, he includes what she'd said about his eyes, smiling at Wesker looking at him like anyone calling his eyes _lovely_ is the most preposterous thing in the universe. Chuckling a little, Chris raises his brows and hands in mock defense, "Her words. Said they remind her of a cat she had."

"I'm…not a feline." _Pouting_. Chris can hardly believe it. Smiling sadly as his heart silently breaks to realize it's not only terror that can make him look so young. But the pout is more of a cover, hardly born of petulance. Chris is aware of his belief that he'd been Umbrella's pet for decades, knows how sensitive he is to anyone likening him to an animal. Sergei had called him a rat the whole time he had him.

"She doesn't think you are," Chris assures him. "Hell, you're probably the smartest guy I know, but you make that face at her and she might try to adopt you anyway." Wesker's face morphs into a soft frown indicative of intense inner thoughts.

"Was that…a joke?" finally giving voice to his speculation, his frown deepened by suspicion and a familiar distaste.

"Yeah…” Chris admits. “You never did like mine."

"They're never funny." The solemn way he says so makes Chris laugh. "Jill's were always better." And Chris' eyebrows go up in mild surprise and mock affront.

"Jill's were always meaner," Chris counters, shaking his head, but still in good humor.

"I know."

As they make their way back to the room, Wesker once again says he doesn't require a therapist and opts for expressing interest in the weapons project he'd been tortured in. He catches Chris completely off guard when he says he's curious if he could maybe have a look at their work. A fucking breakthrough as far as Chris is concerned.

"I'll see about getting that to you. We'll probably have to wait a while after what Jill did to the project leader." At Wesker's questioning look, Chris lofts his brows with a half shrug and tells him, "Seeing what he was doing to you, she made him eat the wall a couple times before tranqing him. She also sort of assaulted one of the others to steal his keycard." So a delay is both expected and almost understandable. Almost.

"How…kind of her."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be at the end of the last chapter. Naturally, it continues from where that one left off.

Chris drops onto one end of a beige three-seater ( _large ammo_ ) only recently added to the room while Wesker settles down on the opposite end - a safe enough distance away that incoming touch will be seen beforehand. For his own peace of mind, Chris knows, as Chris had weeks ago made a habit out of seeking Wesker's express permission before making contact. He'll ask or offer a hand, ensuring the decision is always his, but even then it can be tricky.

“Assholes should’ve let you go the moment O'Brian called. Jill would've tranq'd the entire team had they gotten in her way.” Whether or not Wesker agrees with any of that isn't clear, but his fascination with Chris' unwavering statements is. As when Chris told him he'd killed for him, hearing just how far Jill meant to go in his defense calls upon that unblinking expression of wonder. It beats the deep frowns of severe anxiety he's seen Wesker wear - mostly after madly scribbling his private thoughts, making Chris sure there were very intentionally avoided topics paining him. The weariness he doesn't even notice anymore. Try as he had, there was no preventing himself getting used to seeing Wesker the way he is.

But unless in a markedly ornery mood, Wesker isn't one for open staring - and probably considers it rude - and therefore, doesn't likely do it intentionally. Watching him do so almost seems like some weird invasion of privacy, but Chris can never stop himself. Apparently just as captivated, he can't turn away from Wesker's hypnotic ( _almost pretty_ ) glow.

While he does wish Wesker could accept that he's cared for enough for necessary force to be used, he can't deny his fondness for the image. It fills him with affection for the man it's foreign to, and he finally decides to call him out on it. “What?” he teases, a warm, attentive little smile flickering in and out of his expression.

The response that bit of playfulness gets him is an unexpected lot more than he could have foreseen, but nothing to regret. Chris holds his tongue; Wesker does not.

The question has the quality of a friendly poke, but Albert catches himself staring and turns away to look at his loosely linked together fingers held between his knees, quickly aware that his answer is going to suck the good humor right out of the air.

“Nothing. I just… It's strange.” A diffident admission. “No one's ever…defended _me_ before.” Why anyone would want to is any fool's guess. The violence that thrums in his veins when he's exceptionally fed up with this sore routine isn't something he's shared with Chris, though it isn't much of a secret after all the furniture he's broken. That he dwells heavily on it and has full on conversations in his head where he refuses himself his old ways again, however, is. Countless notepads he's set alight in the metal receptacle to keep that hidden.

His low tone bleeds with sincerity to point out how particularly far-fetched it is that it's Chris and Jill coming to his aid. It's not a complaint and he isn't calling them liars, and he hopes it isn't being taken as such. Chancing a peek, Albert tuts in helpless disbelief and looks away from the twinkle of humor yet alive in Chris' eyes. Humor is better than anything he'd been worried he might see, but he doesn't get what's funny. To be fair, he's never understood Chris' humor.

“You tease, but you still have nightmares of your own. About me,” he whispers, guilt-ridden and fingers twitching. Those audibly upset awakenings fill him with nervous energy and expectation of a foul mood, no matter that it never happens. “Jill too, I imagine. You both declare it's Umbrella you blame, but…it's _me_ you see." He knows it. "That the two of you _never_ consider revenge? It's nonsensical. You have every right to it.”

Glancing over, Albert sees some of Chris' humor gone indeed, a tender, confident understanding - that makes his guilt run over - in its place. "I betrayed you. I had your trust, and…" even the _'let it go'_ he almost finishes with is a lie. "Honestly, I couldn't have cared less. I used it against you." Trust meant easy to manipulate. "You were pawns. Nothing more, but…maybe something less." Vision gone blurry because shit, he's never going to be able to look Chris in the eye again after that. "A part of me can't unsubscribe from the sound belief that, somewhere along the way, one or both of you will return the favor. You _should_."

There's more, but he's already said plenty and doesn't know how he's been received. If he could manage to _look_ at Chris, he should be able to see the truth before hearing it. If he could've at all managed before, he'd already know. But he can't, not after letting Chris know exactly what the S.T.A.R.S. team meant to him. Now he's afraid not only of what he'll see but how he'll react to it, because he's irritated too. They _should_ make him pay for all the wrong he's committed against them, and fuck, why the _hell_ does he have to believe violence is the most honest and respectable response to anything?

As though he knows it's what's necessary, Chris calls him. Too kindly asks him to look at him, even ending with a "please". So Albert does. Sees the…warmth, and maybe-affection there. Directed at him. _Misplaced._ “That's not going to happen." And the irritation cuts away and falls dead instead of lashing out because…

"I- believe I know that now," speaking fast, slit-pupils repeatedly darting from one of Chris' hands to the other, gritting his teeth, throat working to swallow down the lump of fear so he can force himself to continue, "but despite your best assurances, I can't help feeling that the only reason it won't is because you _pity_ me," spitting the word out like the hated, unwanted thing it is. "No matter what's fueling your decisions, I believe you are…weak and…so very stupid for them. For _not_ taking your revenge when you _should_ -“

Hearing how insolent and unappreciative that sounds, and feeling his face morph into some ugly, emotionally ruined thing, he slams his eyes shut, feels his fists shaking on his knees. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry," in a quiet, thin voice, but all he hears is a whining child, an offensive sound. Unsteady resolve knocked over, it's all but shattered at the notion that he's destroying everything with petty insults.

But when he can brave a look, an open palm is being offered, and it's amazing how relieving that alone is. The warmth of acceptance on Chris' face further mends enough of the faults in the foundation of his will to proceed. "It's okay. I promise it's okay," the encouraging assurance whispered back.

"I'm…" carefully taking the offer in his trembling grasp, Chris' thumb automatically rubbing to soothe, "not finished." Chris remains a picture of patience, so Albert tells him. Every wrong thought, every self-deprecating truth. The way he expects the ugliness of cruelty because not only is it what he's used to but it's what he himself acted with. What makes the most sense and would feel most honest. What would finally give them a clean slate. Being forgiven didn't have that effect; not the way Chris did it.

"My forgiveness would be earned with your beating heart in my hand, but I wouldn't have offered you that." What he'd done with Jill was what he'd been after. "I believed you both…my creations." A worthy pair who'd trained under him and passed his tests, but Jill hadn't taken to infection. Had to be kept on the virus to host it and would certainly have been lost to Uroboros - a loss hardly worth noting because, "I would’ve had you." Because he's always been sure Chris' DNA would take. "The one I wanted to bear witness to the crumbling of all of mankind at my side. Unwillingly seemed most likely…and preferable, actually."

Unwilling. Like how he'd been had. Taken and abused and used and changed. Unwilling. How is he supposed to ever think himself good when he _forced_ … Agonized stare flicking up, instead of resentment, disgust or hate, he sees Chris poorly masking something with far too much compassion, and Albert can't understand why it's there. Why Chris doesn't pull away and call those white coats or _anyone_ in to take him away. Maybe he needs to hear more.

"Those plans haven't exactly left me, Chris," he tells their shaking grips. "Goals unattained, desires unmet." He sometimes feels the pull of them all, sometimes as strongly as he ever did, and he was never one to let losses go. "This parasitic remorse eats away at me for it now, but what happens if that changes?"

What will come to pass if all of that shame zeroes in on his need for an attachment? What if he decides hate suited him better? If the plan is for him to join society, well, after a lifetime of seeking to wipe it out of existence and detesting it, he has no real desire to become part of it. But Chris says nothing, so Albert carries on, feeling himself tipping toward something raw and exposed.

"Make no mistake, Chris, I _hate_ being this way. Rare moments where I feel the slightest bit stable, I despise myself for being so… _human_. _Weak_ ," and he's squeezing Chris' hand way too hard, looks up with an apologetic wince, but Chris is fast to wave it off as unnecessary. "For _this_ ,” a light squeeze indicating their contact, “kindness becoming so vital to me." Years he'd spent with a solid, unwavering goal in mind. Everything he did made sense, held purpose, and that's gone now. All he knows anymore is he wants (possibly needs) things he never did before. He has to tend to emotions and seek solutions he has little to no experience with, and there remain to be so many unknowns they're wholly unnerving and exasperating to the point of wearying all on their own. It's yet so strange how helpful kindness is when he's down, but it's not so simple for him.

Hesitant to carry on, he searches Chris' face for the strength, and whispers, " I…I know that I _shouldn't_ , but there are…so many moments where I…” guilt burning his eyes as he looks at Chris to painfully admit, “hate you for providing it.” So much shame making him eye their hands again. “For bearing witness to _my_ devolution. For not providing instead the necessary violence…to rebuild me into something with a fucking backbone in it. For not adhering to your righteous hate and telling me that I'm not _just_ another one of Umbrella's leftovers,” the tension in Chris' hand there and gone, “but a _failure_ of one." Because that's the truth, and saying it leaves him feeling hurt and defeated all over again. Pathetic. "It shames me, sometimes more than I can stomach, but I'm s-“ blurrily meeting the expression he can't in this moment imagine ever wanting to smash, “so very grateful that you don't." Feeling himself crumble, with a broken sob he pulls that grip in toward himself, the truth of his defeat tumbling out. "Chris, I’m so tired."

He can only just make out hushed murmurs past the force of his muffled sobs, more strained and probably incoherent admissions tearing out of him. He never wanted any of this, hates what was done to him, wants more than anything at all to _forget_ "…but I can't. I can't. I can't-" pressing his face into Chris' chest, seeking comfort or a desist to his defeated words or a place to hide or all three. He'd hoped he would get better, but overwhelmed by memories as he _always_ is, he _can't_. And he knows he wasn't right before, but why is it _this_ that always happens to him? “Why d- Why…“

Albert sobs and Chris holds him close and rocks him, and even now he can't decide if he wants that or hates it too, but it isn't hurting him. It isn't going to make him forget or give him back what was stolen, but it isn't hurting him. It refuses to, and that matters more than any sad attempt to mend an obliterated pride that pushing away would signify.

When all grows silent but for the healthy sounds of their heartbeats and breaths. "Why did they do this to me?"

The silence continues until Albert begins to wonder if he'd actually spoken, but Chris finally answers. "There’s never a good reason when people do sick things like that,” he finally replies. “I know it's a shitty answer. Accepting that there's nothing you could have done to prevent it has to be even worse, but you did nothing to cause it either.”

With Chris’ initial response on his mind, Albert sits up, hands sliding hesitantly down his arms as he pulls away but doesn't go far at all. Chris' hands in his, Albert presses his forehead to his, eyes closing, and lets the close proximity and contact strictly be the supportive comforts that they are, those gentling thumbs never stopping. “People you protect.”

“People I aim to _stop_ , Al,” he corrects, voice all-soothing. “To protect the innocent.”

“People are not innocent,” he whispers. “There's no way to tell who's good or bad by mere sight alone. How can you know what you're defending?”

“We both know not everyone is guilty of being a monster.” True enough. When Albert begged for his help, Chris could have taken advantage of his vulnerability or flat-out denied him but chose not to. Both he and Jill chose to help him. “And my judgement’s been on point, y'know,” tone lightening, Albert able to visualize the momentary smile, but it falls serious again. “That’s how I found you, why I knew _you_ needed help and _they_ didn't deserve it.”

That conviction is beyond Albert. Yes, they'd broken him repeatedly, but did that not provide the victory Chris had spent years trying for? It certainly didn't make Albert worthy of anything like mercy, definitely didn't erase all the evil shit he'd done. Evil he was very much capable of.

“Wesker, you’re innocent-“ but that's nothing he'll ever care to hear.

Opening his eyes, “I could kill you. Easily. Right now.” Chris’ hard gaze is already boring into his own, seeming to see right through his uninspired threat. But he'd stated it as a threat all the same, and this is one of the moments Albert could never predict the outcome of.

“If you wanted to, yeah,” his solemn agreement. And Chris the clever fool, already has him there, and they both know it. “You could wipe out this entire block radius in minutes if you wanted to. It would be your choice, and no one could stop you. Not saying I wouldn't _try_ , but- Is that what you want?”

Already shaking his head imploringly before answering. “No. But there's this…I don't know, lone remnant? Of what I was…delighted at the prospect of picking up where I left off. Chastising me for wanting anything different. Waiting not for wounds to heal but to merely scab over.” And the worst part he has to admit next. “It won't be difficult to revert, Chris. As I've said, I hate being this way. Lost as I am on what I deserve, I am at my wit's end with this sore routine. I feel useless.” He's disgusted with himself.

And he hears it coming before Chris brings up therapy. Knows that his irritation will end the subject both quickly and poorly _before_ it proceeds to. That he's going to profusely apologize _before_ he nearly shoves Chris away to decline as angrily as he does. Such simple events he can predict but not alter.

Fighting the need for closeness afterward, Albert can't figure out a decent why and winds up in Chris’ arms again. Lets himself accept warmth while fighting instead to lay waste to the war in his mind over the cold way he should feel about it. “Even now, it won't leave me in peace. Won't let me…have this. Never mind what I _want_ , I may be destined to be a monster. Chris, I don't know how to be anything else," he wearily admits. "I don't know how to be…good.“

About his exasperating ever present trembles, strong arms tighten like a silent vow to never abandon him, fingers soon finding their way into his hair. “You're not a bad person, Al,” Chris assures him, and takes a deep breath. “But I hear you. It's the monotony. Sitting around's foreign to you too, huh?” Albert huffs out a breath before leaning back, Chris following his lead, and confirming with a _‘painfully'_.

“And I can't begin to imagine how weird it must be for you, but in the meanwhile, I'm afraid you're just gonna have to get used to us. Jill and I take care of our own, and you're a part of that now. And the teasing… Well, you remember how we were in S.T.A.R.S.” Albert does recall their juvenile socializing. “Even if you run off to Timbuktu,” a hint of resignation in his low tone, “we’ll always be here for you.”

As it tends to when Chris gives _those_ types of assurances, Albert's mouth has just gone dry as a desert. He awkwardly feels as though maybe he's been made a member of a new family, and family is a foreign concept. “I'm…not leaving here, Chris,” he murmurs. It's a lame retort, but the best he has while feeling so out of place.

“I know. But hypothetically speaking, _if_ you did-“

“I _won't_.” A tad too defensively. “Sorry…”

“Don't be.”

He's slow to catch on to how Chris has just brought up both his temper _and_ the tedium without once more offering the signature suggestions - going outside and therapy. Suddenly sure he's becoming even more of a burden, there comes the need to concede in some way. “I-I know I’ll want to leave at some point.” Hopefully before his invasive killer instinct gets tired of lying dormant. At this juncture, he's not sure if he's more fearful of hurting Chris or losing his freedom. With Chris alive, even if he ends up in a cage again it will only be until Chris saves him. “Just…not yet.”

“And that's _okay_ ,” Chris' drawled emphasis in his confident assurance. Albert can only wish he could be so sure.

======================

Mercifully, Albert has not had one since Chris' return, but days after his sufficiently stated rejection of the outside needling at him, his dreams turn horribly creative once more. They show him the truth of himself, of the world he'd strived for. The possible consequences, even following victory. A reality where he'd succeeded with Uroboros, only to ultimately lose. Uroboros restrained him as others invaded and tore into him in every possible way, preventing his screams or any sound at all past the intrusions down his throat and filling his nasal passages. He wakes up just as he had the other times - utterly tangled in the traumatic effects.

Coming out of his spell, the mere thought of the normally relieving sight of Chris standing at the door is like a cold sword of resigned terror stabbing through his gut. Like waking to the recollection of the bright lights of an oncoming truck. Though Chris isn't actually there, in an instant Albert is balled up, head tucked and covered with hands and arms. Expected are malice and revulsion. Violence. _‘You think you're so much better?’_ an out of view Chris had repeatedly asked. He can still hear it, and he doesn’t. He doesn’t think he’s better. Knows he isn't.

Chris should have seen it coming. Knowing how poorly Wesker deals with saying no and choosing anything not in sync with Chris' suggestions, he should have anticipated a fallout and kept up with his reassurances. After Wesker gave voice to a thorough rejection of something that wasn't therapy, Chris should have suspected guilt and fear of punishment would eat at him, that the nightmares could and would become worse. And not in the way that lead to flying furniture, but in the way that would make him _long_ for dodging side tables, chairs and the mattress.

Obviously nowhere near enough times, he'd given reassurances that Wesker's reasons were sensible, that anyone would be even more wary. That no one expected more from him. But his words only smoothed away so many of the lines of apprehension, and he stupidly thought it enough.

Five nights following his explanation, Wesker had taken a good hour to find his way out from the lingering hold - the likes of nothing Chris had ever seen - of an especially horrific nightmare, and that was after he'd scrambled to his feet and made his way around the expanse of the room countless times. Listlessly wandering, he spoke so softly not a single word could be made out. Chris had never been so scared for him, fearing whatever Wesker had dreamt had cost him his sanity. But then he'd started weeping, Chris losing worried tears of his own. Hunched over in a corner, head in hands, Wesker sobbed so brokenly that, after several minutes of not getting through to him, Chris couldn't listen anymore.

Stupid as it was, he walked away damning his fragility and wishing he was superhuman too. So pissed off he couldn't safely go to Wesker that he sent the the console desk chair sailing with a vicious kick. He wouldn't be settling down any time soon, and took to pacing the area, pounding head in his hands, throwing the computer resentful glares. It somehow made it through his rage unscathed, and he wound up fetching the chair to wait.

Wesker eventually opened the door, but just stood there, staring into the space between them. What Chris saw was more terror than relief, stammered words still pouring from thin lips, and he half-wondered if leaving the room had been a conscious choice. But he couldn't get a word in past a continuous and distressing amount of apologizing and pleading and baffling reiterations of _'I'm not better'_ , and more than just a little hesitancy to accept the offer of Chris' open arms. It soon became recognizable as one of the rarer times he'd have to hold off on administering comfort and allow their contact to be one-sided.

There was nothing to do about any of it except stand there as Wesker took the time he needed before wrapping unsure, trembling arms around him, Chris' own at his sides, and murmur reassurances that seemed to alleviate nothing. Outside of the times his body comes to aroused, there came others where he was simply not ready to accept _being_ touched. Chris gets the sad feeling that this behavior is a sign that he had been involved in the nightmare.

~~~

_Uroboros launched its appendages from his torso, but not to help him fight off Sergei or the prisoners waiting to do him harm. They instead held him upright and spread eagled. The inmates approached, a pair at either side, tentacles of their own shooting out towards him, and he knew better than to struggle the way he did. Fearful eyes tightly shutting, the boneless limbs began their careless assault. A familiar tone snapped his eyes wide open._

‘You think you're so much better than anyone?’ _Chris, out of sight and stood behind him, voicing cold rhetoric directly into his ear. And Albert, wild eyed and desperately shaking his head, couldn’t utter a reply if he’d wanted to. Bunches of varying sizes of tentacles viciously raped him in every manner, twisting to invade and ravage his throat, nose, penis, rectum; Sergei’s thick tentacles holding his head up so he couldn’t hide._

‘You think you’re any better, Wesker?’ _Quaking hard, all he could do was weep in near silence, trying not to retch or look at Sergei, barely able to sob past the slithering violations. Several loud_ shinks _sounded, like blades freed from sheaths. His frantic disbelief darted over the many bladed tips of Sergei’s tentacles just before they started licking at his genitals, taking mutilating swipes at him. Constantly tearing him apart there, the inmates’ tentacles then started ripping him apart where they'd been invading, Uroboros each time did its job of healing him for more as he tried to scream, all sounds too impeded to escape the depth of his throat._

_He remained hard, came countless times through every horrific trauma. In so much agony, the scent and taste of his own blood on his tongue, he had no idea how_ once _was possible._ ‘You think you're so much better than anyone else?’ _he kept hearing, while slowly or abruptly torn apart repeatedly, Uroboros always stitching him back together, his sensations split somewhere between exquisite agony and merciful unconsciousness._

‘You think you’re better now?’

_Chris’ questioning always calls him back. Makes him strain to respond in the negative, to merely hum desperate and wearied pleas for aid._

_Sergei eventually carved out his eyes, but once they grew back, Chris had been there, his own glowing red. Chris reiterated that same question as tendrils of his own shot out and stabbed straight through Albert's head. And they kept on, more and more piercing into his corrupt brain._

~~~

Until he finally screamed his way into a slow dawning awareness.

_‘You think you're so much better?’_ It's all he hears on his way out of the terror, uttering small no's as he paces the floor of the room. He doesn't feel superior, just scared. Afraid of being targeted again. Recognized for…whatever it is humans have always seen him as, and then taken away. Reprogrammed. To commit and stand by more actions at somebody else's behest. More destructive acts that he’ll have no right to ever condone, and he knows that now. Knows individuals are sums of what they've learned - one way or another - to believe, and he is no different. Certainly no better.

When he comes back to himself, he's terrified of seeing Chris. But then _not_ seeing him urgently pushes Albert to seek him out. Once he does, he can't make himself go to him. Though Chris appears nothing short of agonized to see him consciously flinch and cringe away from his slow approach, to hear him say he’s sorry and not better and beg in the terrified stammer he can't help, Albert fears losing him as much as he does his presence. But he uneasily takes Chris' offered hands and lowers them, desperately hopeful they'll stay there, then struggles to take the warmth he also hopes won't be denied or ruined by even a gentle touch.

He has no excuse for refusing the outdoors. If humans choose to hurt him once more, then so be it. There's no real planning for the future for him, not when he can't control how he reacts, but he'll _never_ respond well to _any_ situation if he doesn't start putting himself out there and into them. Despite the sure danger he poses to his own freedom, he has to endeavor to go outside.

_Maybe you'll get to tear some sad, hopeful bastard apart._ Thinking it could be Chris is…decidedly unbearable. _It'll be so nice to unleash a satisfying measure of that self-loathing._ But hurting his ex-enemy again would leave him mentally buried. Again. _Better get out there and make sure it's someone else then._ Then he'll wind up caged. Again.

Though the expressions Chris fixes on him in his terrors might not be likely to become reality, Albert hurting Chris once more is. In keeping that from happening, he'll venture out. _When_ , precisely, he cannot yet say. But he _will_ do it. Eventually.

They're discussing it for the fourth time, Albert unwavering in his desire to leave the wing, Chris firmly reassuring him that there's no need to rush. As usual, Albert doesn't let it go but still worries about unknown possibilities, and Chris is promising him that, “Super strength or not, I'll always have your back. If something goes wrong, I’ll come for you.”

Out of nowhere, something about that strikes him as _cosmically_ insulting, for Albert can do more damage with- _your bare hands than Redfield can with all the firearms his pathetic hero's heart desires._ The freely given kindness and compassion hit him as greatest affronts to all he'd ever endured, to all he'd painfully hacked away to survive. To become something- _objectively, in every single fucking way,_ better _. Have your epiphanies, but you are no victim. Humans love trying to happen to everything stronger than they are, but it will forever be_ you _happening to_ them _!_

Albert comes back from that thought with a handful of a purple-faced, choking Chris' throat, instantly fighting to make his fingers spring open. They squeeze tighter.


	9. Chapter 9

Villainous thoughts all hashed out, Albert can breathe an increment easier. Constricting his chest now is the privacy held onto for…decidedly lesser concerns. The two most prominent are his lingering desire to be allowed to sleep in the security of Chris' embrace and how truly unwell he is. He has no reasonable argument for the former besides believing it will aid him with the latter. It isn't worth the risk, he knows, but still a hollow ache has made its frigid home near his heart over what he interprets as having lost trust.

When the desire was too strong to rein in, he'd had a full assortment of utterly embarrassing difficulties with letting Chris leave. All the heartfelt reassurances in the world didn't help in those grieving moments, but Albert each time came to accept it with Chris' best reason repeating in his head: "I promised not to leave you alone." Eventually Albert stopped begging, learning instead to remind himself that Chris would stay if not for the small chance of death that would render his promise broken.

The drawback to acceptance is that he hasn't slept more than spare minutes at a time since having to do so alone. It's a problem he's hidden easily enough by pretending to sleep through milder disturbances. At nights, the best he can do is tangle his fingers and hands extra well in Chris' clothes to ensure Chris' fumbling extrication of himself will conveniently wake him. Lying awake for hours, exhausted beyond measure but too afraid to fall asleep, he'd sometimes hear Chris have disruptions of his own. But in the silence or to the soft flow of music, he far more often than not falls asleep anyway.

How quickly thrown back into nightmares he is when Chris comforts him through the terrors he wakes wretchedly from, body melting into the sensation of safety. Maybe it's the knowledge of being alone, or the seeping coldness his resting body detects as lack of protection, but where he'd been starting to sleep better before ( _almost killing Chris_ ), he lately feels moderately fortunate for any involuntary naps he falls into. But crashing from an overworked state of mind is hardly conducive to restful shut eye either. Vivid dreams of horrific memories kick in immediately and he ends up more tired than before, stuck in a state of mind as liable to fall apart as lash out.

The feeble posturing and lack of sleep take their tolls, however, and he's found an unwelcome friend in resentment. A bitterness he has no right to. After all, he is the deceiver, and what else should Chris do but trust him? A lonely thought suggests that Chris should be suspicious and able to see through his lies, should see how miserable and untrustworthy he is, and Albert has no idea where that childish expectation came from. Chris gives him more than he deserves as is.

Almost preferable is the apologetic irritability his worn out head will sink to when he's been awake too long. Lightning fast to spit ire with a follow up regret right on its heels, his insults and apologies often tripping over one another in the same breath. To Chris, he imagines he must seem insane, but nothing in their routine has changed for weeks. Maybe Chris is crazy too. Or too tired to notice. _Open your eyes. He's too damn tired to care._

With dimmest hope, Albert had given the internet a thorough scouring for how to tackle the traumatic side effects running his life, but the damned species he shares DNA with deems psychotherapy an optimum method. It's a below lesser concern that he’ll never bring up because he thinks it bullshit, but one that begs to be brought up because he's unsure. Maybe Chris is right and not all therapists are the same.

But he's bothered by how it's apparently the single effective choice he’s so far elected to forgo. There's group support, but that's a solid no. Personal experience proved that nothing helped quite like _forgetting_. Of course the world's word would be altogether for a practice he's highly uncomfortable with, and it makes him respond worse to Chris' encouragements toward therapy. Relief still washes over him when Chris relents, but there's a bitter aftertaste to it.

That dastardly voice of his starts off with cheap bait, claiming that Chris could never want to lay up in bed with a freak of nature. Two months ago, that might have given him serious pause, but not anymore. To his general relief, there are nil signs of physical attraction, but he's quite sure that Chris at least likes him for some reason. Cares for him enough to respect his choices. The intrusive voice questions that with a snide remark and more believably trusts that Chris has had enough of dealing with a grown man's - _some ten-plus years his senior_ \- tantrums. _If you don't want what's best for you, why should he or anyone else?_ As if there is anyone else.

Except there is, and not a week ago, she’d unknowingly supplied him with new worries when his ears happened to zero in on her voice flatly telling Chris, over the phone, to explain why Albert wasn't seeing a therapist yet. Nothing in her irate tone was pacified after Chris said he wasn't ready. Instead she’d hounded Chris for being a “soft idiot” in an area she said he couldn't afford to be, and Albert became aware of it then. Jill would force him. It's possibly the right thing to do, but as unrested as he always is, he's silently worked his way down from full on panic attacks while imagining being forced since then. Of what could happen if he resisted.

Jill would make him sit in a bleak office and reveal uncomfortable details he didn't want to, to a face that never changed. Nervous, ashamed and hurting while being observed as though listening to his plight was a bother on par with being handed a high stack of paperwork. After a painfully relinquished display of emotion via a lofted brow or thinned lips, medications would be prescribed and he just does so poorly with those. Methods he's so very sure he's aware of would be encouraged with indifference. Meditation is an old favorite, but his headspace is no good for that yet. Screams have a terrible habit of invading the quiet when he's alone with nothing but his rampant thoughts.

Alone he normally engages in artwork and writing, both of which Chris believes help him. They don't, not much. Albert shares only innocuously questioned landscapes with Chris, but he mainly draws portraits. Of the mostly nameless people he's killed over the years. Months of a guilty conscience have brought many terrified faces to his conscious mind, and he strokes their likeness to the canvas. Stares at their horrified faces for however long afterward, unknown but not forgotten, in apology. He now knows how they'd felt. Recalling how little _he'd_ felt in the face of their terror can sometimes make him feel deserving of everything done to him all over again, but that's apparently a step in the wrong direction. If there was a steel bin large enough, he'd burn the books of drawings too.

What he has are concessions to make. Like relearning to accept sustenance, or timidly growing fond of Miss Valentine, though he's severely back-pedalled on the latter recently. Like exploring the wing, or trusting Chris with so very much. Little supposed betterments. Filling Chris with pride on his behalf is a surprisingly exhilarating thing, but he wishes to actually _feel better_. To sleep in peace just once or empty his head of gnawing questions and secrets. He cannot very well fake his way through what life he has left, but the reality is he's not a good person the way Chris is, and he's very likely more aware than others of how much easier it is to not care. The last thing he wants is for Chris to realize it too.

There had been a tense moment where he'd thought Chris, a painfully hesitant look on his face, might ask how he'd dealt with Spencer's abuse in spite of knowing how little Albert cared for being questioned about his childhood. But he'd instead asked about Albert's old apology for being afraid, and Albert kept his answer short and honest. Too afraid to continue resisting, he'd given in. “You know that's not your fault, right?” Agitated, he'd quietly growled in response and that ended that. For all the things supposedly not his fault, he sure does lose sleep over them.

Perhaps taking a stroll outside can help. It just seems more like it'll land him in a new home inside a much less friendly cage. Chris has upped the efforts toward coaxing him into therapy since being brought up to speed on how possible a reversion could be, and has doubled those encouragements following that Uroboros themed nightmare. Even the sure result of dealing with Albert's temper doesn't deter him the way it used to, and he's not sure if he's more worried or relieved by that.

Deciding on the outdoors doesn't turn out to be the solid decision Albert expects. He makes his choice and then fumbles it. Repeatedly. He then dances around it, surely exasperating ( _so far_ ) permanent partner Chris with his looping fears. For his part, Chris does his best to reassure Albert on all fronts.

A myriad times he's implored Albert to trust that he's safe with him, that adjusting is a lengthy process and finding his place in the world will come later, after he's comfortable in his own skin again. That while his temperament left most insulted and in a bad mood, it was nothing to be ashamed of it. It's who he is and it didn’t become a part of him through ignorance or even choice. The thin skinned could walk away from mere words. After all, being offensive is preferable to threatening their entire species and professing himself a ruler of some new genesis when “the only Genesis I want to think about is the band, and they're not even active.”

It's so annoyingly nonsensical Albert thinks Chris might be attempting a joke and referencing media to do it no less. Honestly, there is easily enough confusion running amok in his head for Chris' poorly timed humor, so he goes through them again. “What if I _do_ hurt someone?”

======================

Through the art room door, Chris spotted Jill preoccupied with a phone call and entering the wing. Somewhere between reassuring Wesker and noting how his wave to Jill was going completely unnoticed, Wesker suddenly had him by the neck and lofted into the air in one smooth movement. Out of nowhere, he was being choked in a scarily familiar way, wide eyes gazing into an eerily familiar expression. And Wesker… Wesker spoke to him, hard glare glowing an impossibly bright amber, like an ifrit idly contemplating burning him alive.

Voice calm and clear of emotion but for that sliver of arrogant amusement, he gave a casual reminder of how he doesn't need the weapons Chris does. Said something about himself and humans happening to one another as Chris took the time to vainly struggle for air and to get free, resulting in a tighter grip. Hope for escape gone, all the more Chris could do was stare pleadingly into that radiant scrutiny as his swimming vision gradually darkened.

"Trying your hand at happening to me too, are you, Christopher? Keep me miserable and weary instead of tossing me at a therapist like Jill would have?” It wasn't the best way Chris could've learned that Wesker knew he needed therapy, his every other thought dedicated to believing himself a dead man. “You're obviously out of wonders to work, but stagnation doesn't suit me, Chris. Has that bleeding Redfield heart finally run dry?" Tilting his head in a chilling facsimile gesture of consideration, "Your desire to help me _was_ premature, wasn't it?"

Fighting to keep his eyes from rolling, hands merely pawing at that death grip, Chris stretched out an arm to run what was left of his strength in the form of affection. Fingertips ghosting down a flawlessly pale cheek, he fought to hang on as the seemingly possessed man vaguely trembled in place and uttered a faintly growled, wavering, “I don't need your help.” To Chris, he only sounded hurt. “I don't need _anyone's_ help.”

Chris' hearing took on an underwater quality as Jill's outraged voice rang out - _‘Wesker, what the fuck?!’_ And Wesker, who still almost never spoke to her, instantly startled and shot her a dangerously quiet snarling mix of who-knows-what. And _slammed_ Chris straight into her in a move violent as merciful.

Convulsing, Chris incoherently tried to say it was okay through so much retching and sputtering for air, Jill already back on her feet. His teary and concerned eyes found her visibly shaken but furious and splitting her efforts between regarding Wesker and checking Chris over, trying to help him up, ignoring his unsteadily placating gestures. “ _This_. Is _bullshit_. I am not letting you idiots get hurt any more than you already have dammit!”

Jill yelled and Chris watched Wesker. One hand at his neck, he tried reaching out with the other to ease the pain from those pale brows and glowing eyes. He hadn't been doing so well by him lately, and he wanted to apologize for that while Jill let out her fear in the form of anger as Wesker's angry grimace morphed. Softening out into confusion, he quickly wore a look of increasing worry in the space of the seconds Jill spent admonishing them. As she whisked Chris’ still heaving form out, Wesker appeared well on his way toward a silent panic, staring a lost betrayal and alarm at his shaking palm.

“Sorry…I'm s-“ Wesker started saying, a strangely absent air to his nervous tone, taking a halted step, orange eyes on Chris loaded with frightened regret. But Jill's quick order of _'you stay right there'_ saw him frozen him to the spot - body hunching in, eyes to the floor as he obediently nodded and began trembling - before she slammed the door. And it stayed shut, Wesker's fear of being closed in a room with no way to see beyond it apparently losing to his fear of Jill. Chris could understand that, but he hadn't much room for more contemplation there just yet.

What he couldn't make sense of was what exactly had transpired. There'd been no argument; nothing to provoke violence. _Or murder._ Chris had spent much of the time verbally worrying that Wesker was pushing himself to do too much too soon. But Wesker stuck to his disagreements, waved off every sure worded deterrent, and had trepidations of his own that Chris could only try to ease. Lucky as they are to even have Dr. Anders’ eager willingness to help, Chris knew he needed to step up and get him seeing her already. But declining therapy is a hard rejection Wesker has never harbored any guilt for, and his answering _no's_ have gone flat.

Yet, despite all that, Wesker knows in therapy is where he should've already been too. Chris would've preferred to be informed in a way that didn't include nearly having the life choked out of him while surrounded by goddamn art supplies. Or being launched - not unlike the furniture often was - _at Jill_. And then there's the matter of the other things he'd said. Was that the “lone remnant” Wesker told him about? Because _holy shit_.

Dull-eyed, hand lingering at his certainly bruised throat, and with a serious need to set things right, Chris more or less tripped ahead with some semblance of coordination and wasn't released from Jill's insistent pull until they were out of the wing and near the elevator. Stumbling to a stop, "Jill, wait-" But a hand was held up to silence him before she informed him that he needed to get the hell out for his own good. “Wait, what?” Really looking at her, his stomach did a small somersault. All the irritation he'd been getting from her of late was about to explode into a moment.

She ordered him to grab some fresh air… Along with a shower, shave, haircut, and his _'own fucking clothes'_. "Seriously, Chris, have you _seen_ the caveman you are?”

Running a hand through the oddly substantial stubble on his face, he rasped out an unsure “No?”, wondering when the hell the last time was that he'd seen himself in a mirror, just before Jill asks exactly that. “Look, Jill-“ his counter interrupted by a small coughing fit, “I can't just…leave him. It isn't his fault. He knows he needs therapy…now.“

"You and I have known that for months, Chris, and yet…" giving him an expectant look. "What the fuck are you thinking postponing his therapy? Because "he's not ready"? Are you serious? And you know I care about him too, so don't give me that look,” she, warns. “Take care of yourself, Chris. Wesker will survive one evening without you."

“The _evening_?” Despite all the sense Jill makes, Chris, for some idiotic reason, tries to argue. But she's ready for him. For his anger, insolence and for his worn attempt to muscle his way past her. With how quickly he ends up on his ass, he’d say she's been prepared for months…and that he's gotten way too used to a sedentary lifestyle. “He’s going to think I'm angry with him,” he says in defeat, accepting her proffered hand to get up.

“He's too busy worrying that I am," she's quick to correct. “Since I was.” He inwardly groans at the memory.

"I can't believe you yelled at him, Jill," low and disappointed. Pained.

"Yeah, well, you were purple," she throws back, unbothered and wholly satisfied with that reasoning. "My yelling shouldn't surprise you. Or him, actually," she says, as though only just remembering. "After three years, I know things about him too. Like how this moping around shit must be unbearable for him. I once saw him-,” pausing, appearing to war over whether or not to finish. “Let's just say he has a history of making sure anyone not pulling their weight got the walking papers of a lifetime.” After letting that set in, “He'd turn unapproachable - meaner, quieter - when he hadn't gone outside for a few days, but this inactivity alone…” she stops herself. Noting his interest she shuts down, obviously not wanting to veer off in another direction. “He needs to talk to Dr. Anders.”

Chris agrees, but can't keep from making an uncertain claim to Wesker's mild improvements, believing it's probably difficult for anyone else to really notice. Either that or he's been fooling himself, hopeful to the point of delusion. “And I know I suck as a substitute therapist, but he's op-“

“Oh my fucking god, Chris," she interrupts, incredulity sky high. "When the hell did you decide _playing therapist_ was a good idea?” After tens of dozens of refusals. “Dr. Anders will be tickled to hear it's a _referral_ she's been waiting for before Wesker can see her. Signed over to her by renowned psychologist Dr. Redfield. You're only supposed to be his _friend_ , you idiot!" shoving hard at his shoulder.

"I…know," he murmurs, struggling with an understanding that he's probably not been the best one lately. To either Jill or Wesker.

"Then why can't you see how miserable he is? He still blames himself, Chris. He's not sleeping enough. He doesn't trust anyone who isn't you, and now this,” shaking her head by the end. “ I don't know what the hell gets into your head when it comes to him, or why you still seem to think no one else can care about him. Why are you sheltering him from the things he needs?" He doesn't have an answer or even the lamest retort for any of that. "Really, Chris, I’m not trying to pick on you, but my foot wants to kick your ass," sounding finished, but then, "and you're shit at therapy for an excellent reason.”

Choked by a sickening amount of guilt, "Not a therapist," he whispers. Recalling the doc saying the same thing in warning. Chris just stares at the unwavering resolution nodding at him. She hasn't brought it up since bringing it up, but she sees a psychiatrist. Not company paid. Jill had also but once mentioned how nervous she'd been, even knowing there was no real reason. How Wesker _has_ reasons for his fear of therapy, so some pushing should be expected but entirely worth it because he needs it. Sure, he knew now that he'd been manipulated, but according to her, being aware of it didn't make shit better.

An unspoken _‘if I need one for what_ I _went through…?!?’_ floating around the room, he's unable to believe how blind he's been and can only apologize. This is the last thing he meant for, and though he’d been positive Wesker was healing, albeit at a trickle, he'd had suspicions. But those were swept aside anytime thoughts of forcing Wesker into anything came to him. So much for doing better by the man. Jill was right, he really is a soft idiot. A _too_ soft idiot catering to fears instead of needs, who shouldn't even b-

"Chris, stop getting lost beneath your torrents of guilt. We both know you never meant harm, but you're moping around too, you know," sympathetic but firm. "This is unhealthy. I constantly complained about wanting to get the hell out of here for a reason. And so you need help with him,” she says, gripping the elbows of his crossed arms in a supportive gesture. “That's _fine_. What's stupid is being too stubborn to ask. Now stop your weird smothering and go be a real boy for a few hours. You've done a lot of good for him, but it's time to tag out. Let him see that he has more than one person in his corner too.”

Arms dropping in defeat as hers fall away, he nods, overcome by weariness, "Do I get to let him know-"

“Is that wise?" she asks, enlightening him to the fact that it probably isn't. He gives a low _'no'_ , well aware Wesker might not _let_ him go and would very likely break and beg. Actions Chris is shamelessly weak to, doomed to always give in to them, _especially_ after having to deny so many pleas to stay with him while he slept. He hopes but then knows Jill will handle Wesker's behavior just fine (probably better than he has). "Come on now, don't make me drag your ass out of the whole building." He barely reacts to her attempt to stir some life back into him. "Oh, and I'll be fine too. Case you were wondering.” That does the job.

Chris huffs out a breath, incredulous. "You trying to downplay how scary you are when you're pissed?" he asks, making her beam with knowing pride, and him shake his head. "Wow. Don't give him a heart attack, Jill."

"I would never. Better get going. I have an appointment to set."

======================

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…_

He'd messed up. Consciously, he'd hurt Chris. And Jill - _Please, no_ \- she'd shouted at him, and he… Oh, he’d reacted _so_ poorly; had meant to _stop_ , to release Chris. But, as he is wont to do when it comes to his temper, he'd given himself over to it and once again let the opportunity to choose a better way go.

And once again, he's going to pay for it. He can scarcely swallow for the fear.

_Sorry, sorry, sorry…_

It won't be enough. He'd _said_ he was sorry; hoped to check on Chris, but Jill… He'd assaulted her too, and she…she'd looked for all the world like a warning of terrible things to come. She'd yelled at him… Ordered him…

Arms wrapped tightly around himself, he can't hope to contain the panic and must now wait for her return. For her decision. ( _For more orders_ ). Terrifyingly unnerved by uncertainty, it's like his first days here all over again. He'd like to see Chris, to first see that he's okay and then maybe beg for protection, but the idea of merely moving for the door struck him like a physical blow as the disobedience it would be. He's in enough trouble. He's in so much trouble.

In minutes, all uncertainty is gone. He's convinced he's earned himself a lifetime of punishment.

Fretting his way through most plausible comeuppances to come, by the time Jill returns, he's well past convinced that the controlling device she'd forced on him in his nightmare is very much an option. Is quite immersed in suffering the wrath he'd dreamt. Folded in on himself and curled up tight, his eyes dart frantically and blindly over tensed hands under their bright orange glow, shuddering and twitching body feeling _everything_.

Even daytime terrors make the impossible seem as good as likely, turn works of imagination into real time occurrences.

Resonant tone suddenly there, he's startled by it. It's questioning him or maybe saying his name, and when he realizes he's been so caught up in imaginings that he has no idea what _Jill's_ been saying, it's another ruinous error added on. A downward spiraling panic it becomes when it next dawns on him that all the agony and abuse he's just suffered was only in his head. It hasn't even begun. She hasn't even dragged him back to Sergei yet.

He comes back to himself mid-hysterics. Crying, begging, going through a painfully familiar ( _useless_ ) process, and he can just make out Jill’s voice. Clarity gone, he's positive her words are orders he's missing and not following, and that worsens everything. It's not a good time.

When he comes back again, there's touch at the top of his head lacking force, a tone devoid of frost. Still crying and fairly terrified, it's nowhere he wants to be.

The next thing he knows, he's too tired to do anything. It’s as agreeable a time to pick up from as he's likely to come across. Exhaustion is no stranger, lingering issue as it is. Unsure if he'd been crying before, he can only hope he wasn't; knows Jill will want to put up with that as much as Sergei ever did. But slowly renewed clarity brings with it terrible confusion and fear that give him an opportunity to shed disobedient tears he'll remember.

"You're safe. No one's going to hurt you." Jill's voice is gentling, her hands - one in his hair, the other upon his cheek - as well, and he doesn't understand but is so achingly grateful it hurts in that way nothing else touches, and all he can do is helplessly weep in hopeful, tentative relief.

Jill never even admonishes him for it, doesn’t call him names or demand that he stop, though he instinctively tries to. She keeps saying he's safe, not going to be hurt, something about him needing help. He can’t agree more, but he'd already come to the conclusion that _forgetting_ was what helped him as a child. _Only_ forgetting; _not_ therapy. But he can't do that now. He knows she wants him seeing a therapist, that he won't resist should she demand he go, but he doesn't want to go. Even though it might help. Why can't he do anything right? The self-deprecation and stress bring about another break.

He blinks his way back to find himself huddled against a welcome warmth, and though the scent is all wrong, his immediate thought is that it's Chris. Blurred vision coming into focus, Albert pushes himself upright, taken aback to see where he is, and nearly chokes at finding an attentive Jill down on the floor with him and straightening up as well. It takes every scrap of remaining ingrained obedience to not push himself way farther back than the few inches he can't prevent, but, face to the floor, his scrambled mind works through the details. She had been…consoling him, he realizes before recalling the supremely sorry state he'd only just been in.

“You okay?”

Such a simple question. Maybe it's her genuine concern or knowing what he did or the answer, but it effortlessly makes the tears fall again. In forlorn silence, body shuddering and hunching in again, he sniffles against them, shakes his head and lets it hang.

“Hey, that's okay. You don't have to be.” And her sure hands are there again, not letting him wallow, easing him to face her. “No one's hurting you, you're safe.” So earnest and confusing. “And I'm not sending you anywhere. I just want to talk.” About what he did, of course.

In spite of his fear, when she carefully takes the soothing of her hands away, he involuntarily leans in to chase it. Catching himself, he flinches back, a quavering whisper of an apology slipping out.

“It's okay. You're not in trouble, alright?” He doesn't move but to nod as though in a trance, unsure how that's possible. “Okay… You want to tell me what happened? Looked like some thought was involved.” Shaking his head in the same dazed way, the fog in it clears up with a jolt and horrified little shudder.

“Sorry… Yes.”

“It’s okay. Really, you're not in trouble. What happened?” Really, he should answer her, he thinks. Face to his lap, he searches for the words. He’d become angry. Just because. Felt his fingers twitching, violent and impotent, at how misplaced and insulted some significant part of him obviously feels, and had a need.

“Don't be afraid or ashamed to look at me. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you have no reason to be,” her assurances solid as steel, stated as cold facts laced with anger. When he looks up, the trace lines of anger fall away so a cold but reverent ( _pitiless_ ) authority stares back.

Without preamble, she divulges some rather personal information of her own. How she has to see a therapist and still has panic attacks. That she cries for reasons she has to think on because she’ll stubbornly dismiss them as stupid at first. She still has nightmares, tells him that while the role of villain in them is his, she knows it's "a huge fucking Umbrella-shaped lie." Knows he was less in control than she ever was the whole time, and he takes the disposition of shame again, silent tears dropping fast down the faint splotches of flush still coloring his cheeks.

"Therapy, Wesker. I thought it was for the goddamn birds too, but we need it. It actually helps." From there, she swears to do what she can to help him find peace. Confirms his awkward feelings of before in saying that he's like family to them now. Gives a wincing apology when it makes him shy away with burning cheeks and a violent shudder assaulting his spine, overcome with the strangest mortification. She hadn't considered how weird it would sound to him.

"Chris and I - we know you endured shit we'll never be able to fully understand. But Wesker, you _never_ have to worry about _us_ seeing you as weak.” A break in her mask of logic leaks emotion, an ache for the unspoken finisher there, but she seals it up again with a solemn nod. “We know better and have too much respect for you for that.”

More relieved than he's ever been in her presence, he responds in a light frown of despairing hope for a time where he too will be able to see himself the way they apparently do.

"You'll get there too," she says, fully determined. "Feel any better about helping me understand why I was nearly one with Chris' backside a few moments ago?"

Breathing easier now, he actually does. Swallowing down some of the thickness of spent emotion, he clears his throat with a subdued noise and explains, “I…was angry. I wasn't, but then I was, and then I… I couldn't stop myself. I-I _made_ the effort to but _couldn't_ ," he recounts in frustration. "Then you showed up, and I… I'm sorry, but I believe what I did truly may have been for the best,“ wincing a bit at how that must sound to her.

Yet she's not even miffed. “Alright,” she consideringly drawls, rising to her feet and stretching. He could probably use the motion himself, but his spot on the floor isn't so bad. “Anger's normal. You have endless shit to be fucking pissed about, but if it's douche-bags you're in need of, you'll have to start heading out to find them.” Except he doesn't actually want that either. If what he'd just done isn't proof of the exact sort of danger he poses, what the hell is?

Shaking his head, he can feel how wide his eyes are. But it's more incredulity than fear watching her retreat to lean comfortably against a wall. “You witnessed what I'm capable of on a whim, Miss Valentine. Would you not agree that my little exhibition files me away rather neatly in the ‘danger to society' folder?”

“Right along with the rest of the world." _Come again?_ "Everyone has dangerous potential. You’re just _way_ stronger, and…well, it actually isn’t fair you can’t lash out, say, the way _I_ do. Especially since that's someone else's damn fault,” tone practically demanding every word is true, so he just nods a bit, not keen on the idea of arguing with her.

But he forces himself to admit that it's the effects of a virus he'd voluntarily injected himself with that made him the way he is. That T-virus' assimilation with Umbrella's Progenitor is what's been keeping him alive too. So at least that much is his fault.

She listens to him, hears him, and tells him he's wrong, citing his drives for doing such reckless things are there only because of Umbrella. That his wrongly harbored responsibility is them too. "Your life would've been your own if not for them." She makes so much sense, but it changes nothing for him. In silence, he struggles to force it into a truth for himself, but can't. Before long, Jill simply falls back into the subject of his recent anger.

She explains he's been cooped up too long and that it makes people crazy. So easily labeling him a person with a small shrug, going on to say that she left this very building ready to scale the walls. “Dislocated the arm of the first guy I arrested, boom, had to increase the therapy,” she admits with no more than an air of moderate disbelief. He can practically hear the _oh well_. “Once you start getting out and talking to someone who knows their shit? I'm not saying you'll _be_ better, but you'll definitely feel better. You've come way too far to lose to something as dull as cabin fever.”

He's been listening, frowning, shooting furtive glances at her expression near the end to make sure she's not angry, and yes, he does believe she's trying to help him. She isn't lying, that much is clear. It never served him to let her know, but she has tells, particularly while speaking at length. And now he doesn't know what to say. Vacating the wing invites too many nerve-racking unknowns, and he hates the idea of therapy. If he has to say anything, he'd like to ask after- “Chris…?”

“He's okay.” It brings a relieved breath out of him, but- "Always means well, but sometimes is stupid. You remember. In this case, he just didn't want to push."

"Not coming back?” less hopeful in asking that.

“Like even I can keep him away," she mutters. "I sent him out for a few things. I know you don't have to worry about it personally, but you haven't noticed he's gone all…” moving her hands around her head as though she's trying to cast some novice spell on it, “Cast Away?” And something in his nervous expression definitely gives away his confusion. “Err…media reference.” No wonder. “Sorry. All stranded-on-an-island, I mean.” Oh. He supposes he hasn't really taken notice, so he shrugs and she lofts an unimpressed brow at it. “Really?" she deadpans, making him tense, but she just carries on. "Anyway, he went to go fix all that for a few.” Then, under her breath, “The things I do for love.”

The word makes his mouth twist in distaste, momentarily unsure of who she means, before deciding on Chris. Of course she means Chris.

"He's never cared much for therapy Chris, but does he cares a lot about you. He never meant you harm, but then you didn't make that easy for him, huh?" Before he can open his mouth, "In your defense, it isn't your fault.” And he's just so tired of hearing that.

“It _is_ ,” he hisses in frustration, “my fault. I…wanted-“ _to hurt him, to kill him._ One of those. Just because he'd been there. Offering kindness. _**Weakness** , you idi-_

“You need a change. In my experience, taking long walks, runs, and digs at myself, friends and other morons is therapeutic in its own right.” Without warning she turns the subject on its head. “I think I know why you’re so afraid of me.” Throat closing right up, he looks away and can do no more, and after spare seconds of him trembling like that and staring a mute shame at the space between them, “I made a lot of threats, didn’t I?” Swallowing tightly, he nods. “They're moot, Wesker. For someone else. Please try to let it go? I honestly prefer your crankiness to your fear.”

“…Why?” It makes no sense. She can be nice, but is it not wiser to inspire fear within the ones who can do ( _have done_ ) you harm?

“I'd like for us to be friends, and I make…mm… _half_ -joking threats all the time. You do know I could never beat you in a fight, right?” If it's an answer she wants, he's gone too tense to give one. He can barely see her despite his fixed gaze, wondering what he's said wrong for the conversation to have turned so potentially disastrous. “You could break me in half, but I trust you not to." _That_ borders on crazy, even without his having launched an oxygen deprived Chris at her.

He tuts in moderate disapproval. “And I thought you were the smart one.”

"Hey,” her celebratory drawled tone startling him into looking up; but the good-humored smile on her face lets him resettle, “that's the shit I miss.” He shakes his head, unable to see what's funny, lost on how she can actually approve of his insulting character. “And I _am_ the smart one," she says. Sobering up, she apologizes for scaring him so badly earlier, says she was just pissed and pretty damn scared herself, but never meant that. She tells him friends care about each other. "I care about what happens to you and how you feel. Okay?” Truth is he wouldn't know, but it ties into what he's seen of her and Chris' friendship, so he nods, frowning hard, uncertainty surely on display.

When he finally chances a peek over at her, “Chris loves us both," casual words widening his eyes and severely furrowing his pale brows with sheer incomprehension, "so you and I are always going see a whole lot of each other. You shouldn't have to be so nerv-”

Chris… _what_? “L-Loves?”

“Well, yeah,” she says, shrugging a shoulder. Like even the notion of someone loving _him_ is anything but outrageously ludicrous. As though Chris possibly suffering such a mental affliction is anything other than a sure sign that he requires therapy himself. “Nothing to get weird over, it's just how he is. He’s so genuine it can be disgusting,” she jests, though her tone never changes. Perhaps it was a half-joke. “You can attest to the overbearing nature side of it.” And while he nods some, the puzzlement not only holds but exacerbates. _Loves_? He doesn't even understand it to know what it means. Or how to return it. Certainly not by doing what he'd nearly succeeded in.

“I don't understand,” he says, frowning at the air between them before dropping his gaze again. “ _How_ can he…love _me_?” How can _any_ one in their right mind? Is Chris ill?

“I don't know-“

 _Of course_ she doesn't. “Because it doesn't make sense!” he desperately reasons to the floor, fists trembling on either side of himself.

“I'm sure it _does_ , actually. I just don't know his _exact_ reasons. But Wesker, you know how much he worshipped you in S.T.A.R.S.," a quiet, knowing reminder. "He would've done anything for you. You would've wound up on his BFF- I mean, best friends list anyway. He's more than happy to be your friend again," she explains. "All the shit that went down then broke his trust and his heart. And we had no real way of knowing better, so it filled us all with…super shitty opinions of you, and we know now that that wasn't fair to you. We hate the shit out of it, but Chris… He feels guilt too, and his is a tangible thing.”

 _Exactly_. Guilt harbored because of him. How the fucking hell can anyone who knows him the way these two do love him? They _can't_ is the simplest answer. They can care, but never love. _Right?_ But even his inner voice has nothing witty to add to the topic. Because even _it_ knows. No one’s _ever_ loved him, not even when there was something there deserving of it. Just thinking and saying the word feels so wrong. Dirty, even. But, really, Jill would know better. “M-Might you…explain it to me?” asking tentatively, cautiously leaning and almost shifting toward her, but her expression looks a tad lost and a lot wary.

“Explain Chris or love?” When he hesitantly says he means both, she slouches against the wall while blowing a lock of her hair up into the air, and mutters. “Oh boy.” Exasperated at the thought alone. Losing a quiet apology into his lap, he doesn't mean to be a bother, but he does want to understand.

“Please?” barely whispering, apprehensive to ask anything of her when he hasn't the right. She'd asked things of him before…

“Wesker, that can take anywhere from hours to days,” she groans, but not unkindly. Just tired. Sort of whining, actually. Nothing threatening.

“Please?"he asks again, but she just heaves a sigh. "Please? I don't- I-I _want_ to…understand,” hands fidgeting hard, he's nervous and embarrassed to admit it, but he _needs_ to know. He's plead for things he'd known he had zero chance of receiving, he'll beg for this. “Please, Mi-”

“Okay, okay, jeez,” she interrupts, a flush of guilt coloring over a quickly waning wariness, but he hardly notices beyond the anxious thrill at her acceptance. “Definitely see why he strives to make you happy,” she very but not quietly enough mumbles, before heaving a sigh. “Make a deal?” He nods, swallowing nervously, eager to accept anything. “I hate this building and these walls. Let's take a walk?”

So taken with the more important subject of unknowns at hand, questions piling up in his head, he merely shrugs at the proposition in a most uncharacteristic _'yeah, whatever'_ gesture. “Cool. Borrow my shades?” He gets up, taking and putting them on rather absently. Before he can start asking, she holds up a finger, “Now, I'll answer all your questions to the best of my knowledge. Know that I know a lot of useful - otherwise useless - shit in these matters," turning to lead the way, "and that there's a park bench waiting for my- _our_ asses.” He shrugs again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if it seems like Jill threw that teensy little whopper of a detail in there without knowing what she was doing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little more Wesker & Jill because why not? (Bec *cough**cough*)

Shades on, Albert follows Jill's steps and studies her responses with glowing scrutiny as he bombards her with important questions on her claim - how she can tell, what differentiates love from care, why it feels the same to him, why Chris never said it, if the feeling is affected by not being returned.

Measuring his strides to remain just beside her quickly moving figure, he deliberates and absorbs the information as it's clarified, little to no regard for the shocked or horrified employees they pass beyond taking care not to rub shoulders with anybody. As he'd always done before. The majority of them paying attention, they take it upon themselves to avoid him too. Probably out of fear, which only serves to make things that much more familiar.

In the nuances of Jill's responses is where his focus lies. Assuaging in their contemplative nature, chock full of thoughtful and expressive gestures and pauses. "I'm no expert," she humbly warns, but she's never dismissive.

“But…I've done _nothing_ to deserve it,” he’s saying, arms splaying out some in a helpless showing as they make it outside and over to a bench Jill promptly drops onto.

“Yeah," stretching out as she replies, "crazy thing about Chris: You don't have to,” she imparts. "He sees what he sees and feels what he feels… Just like anyone else," she adds, as he settles down as well and faces upward to take in the sky beyond the trees. “Don't ask me how, but he feels responsible for…how he found you. He _needs_ this. Much as you do. Chris' patience is a rare thing and just what you need. He's a great friend, Wesker, but he's no therapist." Gazing at the slow passing clouds, he listens to her. Mystified.

“He isn't responsible.”

“Mm _hmm_ ," she hums. "But he sees it different and nothing’s gonna change his mind, so it basically doesn't matter,” she says with a contented sigh, altogether at peace. “Try not to harp on it. You can always ask about it later; guilt or not, he isn't going anywhere unless you send him away." That makes him throw an anxious look her way. He'd never do that. At least, he doesn't think so. "Think we both know he'd respect that decision and that it would be a poor one." A very poor one indeed. "Like I said before, we all need love. You'll always do better with it.”

According to Jill anyone can be loved. She says it’s blind, which makes all belief of otherwise convoluted, biased bullshit. There's endless proof that no one's too smart or cruel or stupid for it, and apparently no right or wrong way to love either. It's very confusing. She says everyone learns to express it in their own way, and those ways are not always pretty, healthy or even nice. Also confusing, and she's quick to agree when he states as much.

“I think that's why it's impossible to know everything about. What doesn't work for one does for another. Seems to be something for everyone. Thankfully, in this case, we're not talking romance or lust or whatever,” she clarifies with a good supply of relief, leaning back. “ _This_ is a whole helluva lot simpler. Chris doesn't expect anything in return. All he wants is for you to get better.”

The lack of physical attraction and non-existent sexual desire does generally make it easier for him, and he nods in agreement. Unfortunately, it also tugs at curious strings probably best left unattached, especially since he hasn't an inkling on how to make such connections anyway. Still conjured up without volition are pathetic thoughts that trust that no decent person could ever desire him in a way to allow him to safely explore that curiosity, and not solely due to his unnatural appearance anymore. The ever shocking contact Chris provides and carries on inviting, despite Albert's many difficulties with it, will likely be as good as he'll ever get.

“He isn't attracted to me.” It's an odd response for an agreement, and not one he'd meant to give in that way. "I m- I…" Embarrassed, he can't quite think of how to amend it.

“That's…” sounding and looking uncertain, raising his anxiety because he can't place what about, “something you'd have to ask him.” Oh. Well, that settles it as a subject that won't be tended to because he won't be doing that. “That something you want?" At his silence and uncomfortable disposition, she's fast to let it go, "Really, it might be best to set things like that aside until emotions aren't running so high and volatile. It's completely up to you, but whether or not he is, he's hardly going to try to woo you at this stage.” Right. Of course. Giving a curt nod, he swallows down worries on the matter of his…condition. "Think of it like this: Chris,” voice lilting at the end, she pauses in consideration, “wouldn’t do anything with you _or_ me that he wouldn't do with Claire.”

Huh.

“So…he loves us like siblings?” That turns the notion of appealing to him sexually entirely revolting. But they're not actually related either, so there is that.

“Really close siblings. Like family. Friends are family you get to choose,” she clarifies.

“Alright,” he quietly drawls, working that out. “I still…don't understand _how_ he can think _I_ deserve it, but alright.”

“Gonna have to ask him yourself, _bro_ ,” sniffing out a laugh.

“He's always been _nice_ ,” he stresses. “And I've always been…”

“A belligerent asshole?” she supplies, getting his eyes to snap to hers. Her tone wasn't cruel, but he relaxes to see the proof in her expression too, and he nods. “Doesn't matter. He was beside himself with awe even when you were at your dickest moments. Pissed everyone off trying to get you to tag along with us on our nights out." Invitations he always refused, he recalls, subtly tilting his head, knowing she'd been amongst the pissed. "And, sure, people adore me, but do you know how many times I've been called a bitch?” Staring back up at the sky, he raises his brows a bit and recounts hearing it at least a handful of times years ago. “I've always been pretty sure those idiots meant ‘asshole'.”

“You're not a bitch.”

“That's what _I'm_ saying," she mutters. "Excella Gionne,” just her name enough to get one of his brows to raise in distasteful memory. “Now _that_ was a bitch,” stifling a yawn.

“She was,” he darkly agrees, fingers digging into a knee as he recalls the unwelcome feeling of her inappropriate touches and advances.

“She used to talk about you," she recounts. "When you weren't around. I feel like shit about it now, but I would hope she'd eventually get her way, because _hoo wee_ , the supremely fucked up shit she'd say about you not showing her the “ _proper_ attention”,” Jill tells the backs of her eyelids. Though the mood of subjects has changed a few times, her demeanor never does. She's wholly calm, wears it like a skin. “I could never believe each time you let her get away with putting her claws on you. We both know how much it made your skin crawl.”

It made every hair on his neck bristle with indignant revulsion then as the memories do now. “I had every intention of making her pay for her indiscretions.”

“Poor girl confused funding your project for funding her twisted version of a relationship.”

“She was hardly poor,” he says with cold consideration. “Not from the start at least, that sordid little _cunt_.” Hearing Jill's ill-contained snort and short burst of giggling tears his stare from the sky to straight down at her, startlement in his shaded eyes and an apology held inside his tensed jaw. He hadn't meant to speak so freely, but Jill hasn't even opened her eyes.

“You're something else, Wesker,” she says, shaking her head, a touch of amusement still tugging at her lips.

Sighing away the unnecessary tension, Albert finally takes in the outdoors fully - the busy sidewalks and yet irksome sounds of traffic and chatter and…civilization, a vague smirk finding its way onto his lips as well. “As are you, Miss Valentine.” Crafty young lady.

“Better, right?” she asks, suddenly grinning at him like a kid who's just shared their favored preconceived gross concoction of ingredients to see it agreeably received.

He nods, taking a slow, full breath through the nose and looking around, surprised at how relaxed- how _freed_ he feels. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure's mine,” she says, closing her eyes again. “Don't go discounting anything we discussed on account of my sneakiness,” she tells him. “Like you, he hates, I mean _hates_ , sitting still and has been doing it _by choice_ for _months_. Then he argues _against_ a logical reason to get out?” subtly shaking her head. “That’s some advanced Redfield love you're dealing with, man,” she assures him with finality, his mouth twisting at the word again. After a few moments of letting that awkwardly brew in his mind, she changes the subject entirely. “We should let him see you out here. He'll shit.”

At his silence, she cracks open an eye to see him staring back with an obvious lack of amusement, even behind the shades.

“What? It'll be funny,” her proclamation deflecting his unspoken attempt at her character. “I'm texting him.”

“I'm going upstairs,” declared in that indifferent low rumble of old as he rises to his feet.

“Awww,” she complains, making halfhearted attempts to kick at his heels as he goes, and then muttering. “Asshole.”

“Pot, kettle,” he calmly fires back, feeling more comfortable with himself than he has in…a very long time.

"Wesker, hold on," she calls, her serious tone loud enough to stop him dead and make him cringe some before he turns back just in time to see a flash indicative of a photo being taken. "Totally necessary." He frowns in irritation, but she ignores it, fiddling away with her phone, probably sending the damning evidence to Chris. "And I forgot to mention that I made you an appointment with Dr. Anders for this evening," she informs him, wiping the irritation off his face, fear instantly in its place. "Don't worry. Make another deal?"

"Therapy…doesn't work for me. It never did," he says instead.

"Wesker, I know what you mean, but this isn't-"

"Talking won't help," he insists, making his way back to the bench. "Miss Valentine, the _only_ thing that ever helped me was forgetting. Everything. I…can't seem to manage that again," he admits.

"Whoa," she drawls, a deep frown of concern marring her face, "them loading you with drugs and conditioning to make you forget wasn’t you "managing" it, Wesker." Confusing the absolute hell out of him. The only thing he was drugged to forget was his origin. He's sure.

"What are you talking about?" he says, anxiety growing, that sinking feeling jetting its way back into his gut. Worrying more when she loses a good chunk of her own confidence but none of the upset.

"I'm sorry," she states. "I thought you knew." But that's not possible. He remembers - what they did, making himself forget. He remembers!

"No…" he whispers, slowly shaking his head instead of taking a seat, positive that none of this is right. He _remembers_. "I made myself," not even sure if she can hear or understand him anymore. "I'm…I'm sure of it."

"No," she tries to soothe, but there's no comforting this away. "I'm sure you tried to, but it was their doing. It's in those goddamn project notes, if you ever want to see."

 _No, no, no. That's not possible. I_ remember _._

He wants to be back in the room again. All this time. Blaming himself. Another thing they made him do. Made him remember incorrectly. He wants back in the room. Needs… He doesn't know what he needs. His head to stay together for starters. Needs to feel safe, to not be exposed. " _Wesker_!" Her quiet hiss the last sound he makes out before he’s back in the wing, sat at the computer and perusing the Project W documents at mach speed.

They made him forget. Before he ever met Birkin. Before he ever got out. Why he remembers so much of it is anyone's guess, but the wiping away of his memories wasn't his work. Wasn't even his choice.

"Wesker!" Jill's loud voice jolts him nearly out of the chair, pulling him out of his dark reverie, and he comes out of it trembling hard, with shallow breaths. "Sorry, but shit, I was worried. You fucking _vanish_ -"

"They made me forget," he says, helpless, having to resign himself this truth too. Lost on how he should even feel about it besides broken because he'd wanted the memories gone. Hated remembering then as much as he does now, but they'd drugged and done whatever they had to him, and he recalls the abuse anyway. It seems stupid to be so affected, but he is. His memories are wrong.

"I know, and I'm sorry. Sorry for dropping that bomb on you-"

"I _remember_ ," brokenly whispering his insistence. Insisting on a thing he knows is a lie, he fixes her with never-ending depths of misery and gets back one of tenacity.

"Make a deal?"

"I don't-" he starts to say, but what difference does it make? How many times can he give a rejection favoring continuation of a stale routine? So many question marks over the knowledge in his head, and this revelation has set him back to being unsure of anything. He's beginning to believe that his place is in a lab.

Drowning in academic work suits him better than drowning in emotions and memories. Numbers and solutions are unfelt, unwavering, reassuringly constant things whereas emotions and memories are not. Swallowing nervously, he nods in resignation, a terrible thought in mind. _What's the worst that can happen?_

"Just listen to her. You don't even have to talk. I _promise_ you she's not what you're expecting. And I don't make those often," she says. She even answers his unvoiced concern. "Worst case, you don't care for her, and Chris and I work on finding you someone you do like."

======================

A month later, and the deal Albert made with Jill is still the best one he's ever agreed to. Exactly as promised, Dr. Anders is nothing he'd ever expected, even allowing him his first sessions in the comfort of his room. Though she does mostly prefer keeping a professional face, she loses it at the worst of his admissions, even cursing his abusers once or twice, and it's warming. Encouraging. Makes him feel like he matters. It builds trust and gives him the confidence to divulge more. She's so non-threatening; nothing like the impassive stiffs just waiting for him to say the wrong thing back at Umbrella.

She's even extended sessions with him. The first time she'd noticed she was leaving him in a bad way, so much weighing him down, she'd questioned him. "Do you need me stay a while longer?" Miserable and unsure, he'd nodded. She assured him then that his needs are important and not points of shame, but it was her assurance that she could never be so cruel as to tell him no that spoke loudest. So, when necessary, he asks and she stays. As a result, in or outside of therapy, he's gotten quicker and is finding it easier to ask for things he needs.

Thanks to her his inner voice is back under his own control again and he's able to quash its attempts to drone on in falsely inspired monologues, much like the way he used to. Turns out it was never out of his hand at all; had merely been throwing his own subconscious and meticulously avoided thoughts at him. She's helped him to quiet those racing ideas and fears enough so he can meditate again. Helped him to stop crying so goddamn much over notions that simply were not true, after working him toward a solid understanding that he'd never done a thing to deserve the abuse he'd suffered either early on or more recently. She said that only the truly and disgustingly lost of their species could treat someone that way, but to make a child feel responsible for it…

He'd been a fair bit taken aback when she'd said she really didn't believe a place in the world existed for people like that. Had been stunned when no disagreement came after his hesitant suggestion to kill them. She understood why he was afraid to cause harm, but advised that he never hesitate to do absolutely anything he had to should anyone try abusing him like that again. Albert doubts he has a conscious say in doing less, but it was weight off his conscience to know he'd not be thrown in a hellish hole somewhere for it.

Slowly but surely, he's embraced anger again, only now it's righteous and not blinding or out of control, as he's had her assistance in keeping it in check. Day by day, little by little, his life is getting that much easier.

Needless to say, he likes Dr. Anders. Maybe more than she likes him, but not in the same way or for the same reasons either, he knows. For he is not a good man, and what shines he takes to a person tend to not run so deeply for him. He likes her, but at the same token realizes that his requirement ( _use_ ) for her acquaintanceship and service is diminishing, and he likes that more.

It's an easy truth as well that she has no need of him, a certainty that affects him about as much as the most basic fact. One plus one equals two, no 'J' appears in the periodic table, the planet's oxygen is supplied by the ocean, and Albert does not accumulate _friends_. He thinks her far too percipient for it, but if she does believe them friends, she must have fallen for a tactic he'd inadvertently employed. He is, after all, exceedingly above average at manipulation.

Another reality is that there will come a time where he and Dr. Anders won't need to see each other at all, an inevitable future he welcomes as much as he does her quality input now.

Yet another fact is that there's only one friend Albert needs, and of course it'd have to be the one person with the annoying ability to make him feel bad about not being good.

  


Three months later, Albert is silently elated that his tremors and wretched awakenings aren't the constant things they'd been. A lot of the time he does still wake badly, yes, but not all. Another priceless relief is to be able to think or talk about his poorest moments sans getting caught up in the reliving of them each and every time. He's been caught off guard by panic attacks here and there, but he's learning how better to interrupt the warning symptoms. Far as he can tell, there's no fix for the ones that spring up out of nowhere.

There's a standing offer in place for a therapy canine, but he isn't fond of the idea of leaving it eviscerated if he goes back to waking in violence - an urge that seems to have all but left his system weeks ago, his every state of mind perhaps accepting he has no need for it. Maybe he'd consider the hound if there was one that settled for a good round of howling versus licking should it sense an attack coming on. Or one that would go to Chris instead, as there's no telling what his sleeping mind would register being licked or pawed at as. A sinister thought suggests he infect the animal, but the shame alone keeps him from sharing that one with even Chris. He doesn't need a damn dog anyway; only Chris.

Chris, who neither slobbers all over nor claws at him and is able to sleep with him again. The change provides the safe comfort he'd suspected it would, and he's only just started sleeping entire nights through since that resumed a little over a month ago. Chris, who'd invited him to live with him not long after that deeply satisfying resumption. He'd jokingly referred to the impending move as a New Years resolution, almost flooring Albert with the revelation that so much time had passed. The last month he'd had any continual awareness of had been March, and here the subsequent March was nearly upon them.

With Jill moved out and comfortable in a conveniently nearby place of her own, Chris asked, and while the notion of change still affects him in a poor way, he's grown pleased with the move. Feels better to wake in an actual lived-in home (Chris' scent on every surface) versus white walls and viewing panels. What few items he had in the wing - easel, books and supplies - along with the computer made the trip as well. His art books met their demise in Chris' fireplace, the hard drive in Chris' (old) microwave. Albert finds his fondness for that hobby along with any dragging impulses toward dregs of the past have severely waned in the time since moving.

It came as rather the bonny shock that Chris' place isn't part of some tight-knit community, surrounded on all sides by at least a kilometer of wilderness - grassland and trees, a lake if he takes a short walk towards the setting sun - as it is, but crowds are initiators of profound unease, so the peacefulness is definitely preferable. Thanks to it, he's as glad for the change as he is to head outdoors each day, even if it's just to chop wood or sit on the porch steps.

Though they're activities he has to severely hold back in performing with company, he thoroughly enjoys swimming in the lake and jogging or sparring outside with Chris - and Jill, when she has the time. The contact sport has been helpful in more than one way. Chris is to be heading back to work in another week, and Albert's not sure what, if anything, he wants to do with himself just yet.

With his head on a fair bit straighter, Albert likes the idea of being still. Of simply healing his mind. It's a point he'd long ago made a goal of reaching, and now that he's here, he's so grateful to be able to hold onto it. How novel it is to wake up and have the time to ponder on what he'd _like_ to do versus what he has to. It brings to mind interests he'd had to do away with in the past. Like the culinary arts.

He's actually grown quite fond of Chris' fairly sized but initially destitute kitchen. "You don't own a range? _Or_ a coffeemaker? How are you still alive?" Given a multitude of green lights on any changes he'd like to make to the house, he'd asked that Chris bring in a supposedly snobby coffeemaker, a gas stove and stock the shelves and update the rickety cookware. He takes unexpressed enjoyment in his ability to show off his culinary prowess to his favorite audience of one; quietly revels over Chris' never fading fascination and appreciation over how delicious every one of his creations is. It's additional fun to see Chris frown and complain over the wreck the kitchen's always in, and Albert sometimes even opts to help him clean up. Sometimes.

  


Through Chris' contacts in West Africa, they've all learned that Sergei's virus returned and that he'd been dosed with a new treatment since. For Albert, it's no surprise, and he barely gives it any attention. Sergei remains locked up, and that's all he needs to know. When the day comes where he's ready to deal with Sergei, he will, and nothing will get in his way.

  


Well as things have been going, the one topic he refuses to discuss again with Dr. Anders is sex. In any capacity, after all the abuse is hashed out. No, he's never held a relationship before, and no, he's never had sex that wasn't forced on him. Besides the latter's lasting effects, he'd grown up with an instilled belief that humans were below him; he had no inclination to mix with a lesser species. Tentatively he'd brought up his concerns over his appearance and viral DNA, of how exceptionally undesirable he must seem to anyone who knows just how damaged he is in addition to them.

But then he hadn't cared to explore those worries or areas of inexperience with her. Indulging him, she'd answered his shy inquiry on how she saw him, and he'd ungratefully tried to cheapen her sincerely given opinion with a derisive tut and a hurtful insult. "My fault for asking an old lush who likens me to a dead feline." She'd taken it with nothing but grace and he'd apologized with anything but.

“My fault for imbibing less than five days before our appointment,” she'd countered with a sly smile, acknowledging his keen sense of smell, and he'd sneered at himself all the harder. Much as he hates being judged, he does it himself more than he cares to admit, and he hates that too but can never stop himself doing it. “It's human, hun,” she always says with a shooing wave of a hand. “Perfectly human.”

Dr. Anders lets the subject of his unease go only after a highly unexpected hinting line that silences and lends him a much needed hand. "He won't be the one to push for more, Albert." After leaving him speechless, Albert mutely fretting over how she knows, ameliorate things it halfway does. Because he hadn't thought of it that way. He'd imagined it a mere proposal of sorts. _If_ Chris returns these strange feelings, he probably sees it how Dr. Anders says, and they all - Albert, Jill, Dr. Anders, even the fool himself - know that Chris doesn't push him.

But Albert is too ashamed and afraid to ask, and so it's yet a problematic matter.

  


Waking up aroused isn't something he can just turn off, so he persists in showering the heat away under a cold, beating stream that brings back awful memories so soon after rousing. In rare moments where he gives in to the painful ache, resignedly trying to relieve it in private usually does the same, reminding him of being ordered to perform the act when he really didn't want to. At the recollection of Sergei's voice, he's always too fast about it; painfully so. There's no enjoyment, only shame and the feeling that he'd been forced.

Alone and hesitantly pleasuring himself in the bed to Chris' potent scent the first time changes his entire perception of masturbation. It feels…good.

Touching himself while surrounded by that distinctive smell, so attached to safety and affection for him, allows him a release not experienced before. He takes his time. Allows himself to feel what he likes, what's not too much or too little, and knows he's safe. Is fairly surprised when he catches himself - cheeks a helplessly brilliant red - moaning and gasping, goddamn _whimpering_ in unadulterated pleasure for once; not pain or fear. For the first time in his life, he enjoys bringing himself to orgasm. And enjoy it he does. Wonderfully so; barely able to catch his breath in the aftermath.

And now, with a foreign desire getting the better of his sleeping mind at times, he's no longer waking up aroused _only_ due to a traumatized headspace. Yet these likely unrequited, unnameable wishes make it just as shameful for him, and he vacates the bed in a stumbling blur when Chris is there.

Even knowing Chris loves him in some way _and_ has seen him naked enough times to last an eternity, he's become uncomfortable to be without even a shirt on - while swimming too, when the weather was appropriate. He rarely ever removes his sunglasses but to sleep and shower, and compulsively rakes his hair out of his face if a lock falls out of place. Evidently, keeping a pristine - very _covered_ \- appearance is something his mind frets over, and he has no idea why. If Chris notices, and Albert's sure he does, he doesn't remark on it.

Having been raised to believe keeping a presentable appearance was important, Albert had years ago reformed his opinion there out in the field. Being covered in blood and gore favored him as well as the smartest ensemble, he'd found. What’s been eating at him lately isn't that and is progressively getting worse.

So when a contented Chris returns with the BOW weapons project notes in tow, Albert swiftly scans over them with half a mind before tossing them aside, upset. Chris asking him what's wrong is more agitating, and he gives him a loaded "Nothing" while thinking _everything_ , and knows the lie is easily spotted. Knows too that Chris won't argue. The sight of Chris nodding, so…dispirited by him… It immediately saps the angry energy out of him, and Albert sags in guilt and trudges away, despairing over the way he is.

Neither one of them says a word, and come very late evening, Albert wakes up achingly hard, utterly frustrated and humiliated. Chris is there, but not really. Not for what he wants, and the stress of needing to know brings it out of him. Pollutes his voice with defensive hostility, his old defense mechanisms processes he can't seem to let go of; the anticipatory tension gripping him for a painful, feared rejection.

"Do you find me attractive?" He tries to keep a brightly glaring scrutiny on Chris, but the pointless walls come down in the face of Chris' gaping, too long silence, and it ultimately lands on the sheets between them. Things are going to change now, and not in his favor. Why couldn't he leave well enough alone?

======================

Old words Dr. Anders had advised Chris with months ago came flooding back. _‘Decide exactly what you’re going to be to him, where you plan to draw any lines, and decide fast. He has enough confusion on his plate to have to deal with any of yours too.’_

Oh, he'd decided fast alright; too fast, as it turned out. Concluded right after hearing it that he'd always be the friend and support Wesker needed so much and hadn't thought beyond that. But somewhere along the way heavy consideration saw Dr. Anders' full meaning breaking through, and that easy decision held but sprouted complication.

Chris found himself staring as Wesker slept against him. That trust never lost its novelty, and Chris marveled at how far along Wesker had come. It'd been weeks already since the signature placidity and frowns had reformed on his friend's face, and Chris, suddenly afraid, found himself wondering how much longer this would last. It had been nearly a year, and in that time, Wesker had become so familiar, a sure sight every morning, every night, every time he came home.

The notion that Wesker would eventually move on and no longer need Chris so much actually hurt. Of course, he'd let the man go, would always feel grateful pride for his improvements, but some selfish part of him hoped… What?

Chris had to face them then - his _additional_ feelings so ignored for months on end. He wanted Wesker to stay; wanted to continue seeing, caring for and…loving him. Having him around brought Chris warmth too, but also…joy. Yet the feeling occasionally froze and soured because, big smiler Wesker is, there was no telling if that was reciprocated. Wesker is relieved by him, trusts him, but does Chris make him happy too? Gazing thoughtfully over such peace on the face of a man who had come to mean so much to him, he hoped so.

A few nights later, he stared in thought again, asking himself why he felt the way he did. Why _exactly_ he wanted this man - this beautiful, perfectly and obliviously charming man who diligently kept Chris fed and doing dishes, who growled and clutched tighter in his sleep when Chris had to get up to piss, and could find Chris anywhere in the house by scent alone… who indignantly wished Chris didn't have to go back to work yet and made Chris question the decision too; who Chris did his damnedest to get well for - to stay. He had the answer before the question finished.

Yeah, Chris has no history dating men, but it was hardly the point that registered as most important. Wanting to _fuck him into the mattress_ or anything so crass could never be the reason anyway. He just loves him. Is _painfully_ attracted to him as of late, but it's a reverberating ache for increased closeness that's manufactured and dispersed from within his chest; nowhere lower. Physically, he yearns only to give him a peck - on the head or cheek; would never dare on the lips. But in reality he dares nothing more than to continue pressing him close and breathing him in, knowing there's no way that affection can be welcome. That's what rings with the utmost import.

Returned affections or not, Chris' imagination gets away from him sometimes. But even in those briefly lived fantasies of kisses and above-the-belt touches, having anything more gets him lost in a sea of cluelessness. _If_ Wesker could ever want him back, he'd have to be the one to take the lead as Chris wouldn't know what the hell to do. After all, he reaps the greatest pleasure from _pleasing_ , and goodness knows he hasn't the vaguest idea what Wesker might or could enjoy. Probably nothing. So he keeps his deeper feelings on the severe down low for fear of Wesker sensing them or interpreting them as expectations to be met. Of Wesker not returning or possibly being distressed by them.

Love is an emotion Wesker barely has a grasp on and it remains a word he quite visibly doesn't favor when Chris - sparingly - uses it.

Unexpected touches can still be unwelcome, and for reasons Chris can only grimly guess at, Wesker has become very sensitive about his physical appearance; he can't even remember the last time he saw him remove his shirt and toss it in the hamper pre-shower. Chris settles on blaming himself for Wesker's discomfort, thinking maybe he'd not hidden his desires as well as he'd thought. He chastises himself for having them at all when Wesker's suffered abuses so terrible that they may very well have destroyed the natural development of such desires in him. But there's apparently no quelling his own, so the best he can do is watch where he lets his gaze linger.

Complicating familial affection Wesker's already has difficulty understanding with what Chris has batting around in his skull will hurt him, and Chris decided it best to sit on his wants forever than risk that.

  


But now, in the face of Wesker's question, he dares to think maybe he isn't the only one who's been battling with the desire for more.

Taking in that unconfident disposition, Chris can both tell and hardly believe that it's expectation of a rejection causing it. Seeing the open hurt over the prospect of dismissal is an unexpected shove for Chris to admit the truth. In a way. “What if I do?” he whispers, and the anguished hope Wesker aims at him is plainly written in every line. “What then?” Chris is sure his own lines match because he's desperate with hope too.

“I…hadn't considered you would be.” Whispering the best either one of them can manage, both either unwilling or unable to strain the moment with more than is necessary.

“I never thought you'd _want_ me to be.”

“ _Are_ you?” he chokes out, those fine tremors affecting his entire frame again, and though he normally wouldn't when Wesker's woken up aroused, Chris offers a hand. Both hands.

“Well, yeah, Al. You're the most beautiful person I've ever kn-” Interrupted by Wesker's strong, fiercely tremulous embrace, now shaking the both of them. Like a half frozen ice dweller grown weary of the frost, yearning instead for warmth. "I never said anything because I couldn't risk hurting you." Having to get it out there just in case; trembling fingers carding tender affection through silken locks, wondering how pointlessly long they've been out in this particular cold, alone but together. "Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, or maybe you'd heard it from the wrong person, or-"

His rambling concerns cut off by warm lips tenderly pressed to his own, the thin sound of need one of them makes loud in the silence and so perfectly dizzying; quietening. Before he can get his bearings enough to return the tentative, delicate thing, Wesker has gently buried his face in Chris' neck again, nuzzling the skin there.

"No," the sliver of his voice strangled, "it's n- No one- Never." Chris is beside himself with disbelief, but Wesker is hardly lying, struggling as he is to get out a truth that's clearly not a point of pride.

 _Fuck_ , Chris curses himself because maybe he _should_ have said something sooner.

"God, Al, I'm sorry-" But Wesker doesn't seem interested in heading down that beaten path at all, bringing their bodies crashing down onto their sides so they lay facing each other, pressing in close, actions seemingly sure betrayed by so defenseless an expression Chris can't hope to find words.

"Let me," he's whispering, like Chris' open willingness is something he can't see. Glowing eyes glazed over and breathtakingly vulnerable, like precious stones shining only for him; soft lips finding Chris' now returned affection, punctuating each saccharine plea. "Please, let me, let me." Gingerly taking Chris' hand, cautiously coaxing his fingers to wrap around his length, and the _sounds_. "Let me, please, let me." Oh, the lovely little sounds of need and pleasure pulse and sear straight into Chris' gut like pangs of starvation. Sensations that, with Chris being urged to do as he is, make quick work of traveling south to leave him quietly groaning.

For months, all he's seen in Wesker is the person he wholeheartedly loves and wants, with every element of his being, to be as near to as he can; at the same time, willing to settle for as little or as much as he can have. Months that wiped clean years of a perceived evil from those exquisite eyes because all he sees anymore is such fierce strength, courage and ethereal charm, an unnamed brand of innocence. He'd die for them now. He's already ended others for them.

What else could Chris ever want but to let him? What else can he intimately reiterate when able, as they rut against each other, agonizingly slow, in this perfectly fragile moment of divine ecstasy except " _Anything_ "?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They touched pp's and I am happy about that.


End file.
